


Mirror-Balance

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Times, M/M, Other: See Story Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-04-19
Updated: 2001-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:11:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About dreams, balance and the entropy of a human hand. Walking between worlds</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set a year post TSbBS. Takes a small look at the boundaries between worlds. Leave some of your skepticism behind.
> 
> Written in present tense for a reason. 
> 
> These are the people who have my eternal adoration - Molly and Kimberly for timely, necessary comments that jolt me into action; Meg for her pictures showing me Raven, and my sis Resham for encouragement and patience despite all my ranting. Don't kill them, please. All responsibility for this piece still remains mine. 
> 
> Warnings: m/m, m/f, h/c, violence, bad language, character interpretation that may be contrary to your own. 

This story has been split into two parts for faster loading.

## Mirror-Balance

by Spyke

Author's webpage: <http://www.geocities.com/spyke_raven>

Author's disclaimer: Pet Fly, not me. I make no money from this either. I probably lose lots. 

* * *

Mirror-Balance -- Part One 

I 

/Sunrise or sunset. Call this a sky. Call this the horizon where earth and atmosphere meet. Call this no-man's land where you lie paralyzed, unable to run the gritty mud through your fingers and confirm the sticky clods are crisp with blood/ 

/Call yourself. Call yourself a name. Lie helplessly and watch the raven-birds wheel overhead, turning in endless circles while you wait far below for their shadow to fall/ 

/watch them. Watch them watching you. Watch them waiting. Wait for them waiting for you/ 

/Call if you can. Call this a dream/ 

/Call this a dream. And wait to awake/ 

* * *

He wakes to the dream again, sitting bolt upright, sheets tightly clenched in his fists. 

His throat is tight, but he isn't screaming. His heart is racing and the room is shifting, but he's in his room and the world isn't defined in shades of crimson and black. 

Just black. Just night-black and the shadowy forms that wave innocently in the wind are only his clothes for the morning. 

Just clothes. Just him. 

Blair breathes a little faster. 

It takes an effort to disengage one hand from his death grip on innocent cotton, but he manages it in time to stuff his mouth and bite down _hard_ before he can release any sound. The pain doesn't hit until his teeth press down the epidermis, nudging a couple of nerve cells. He forces his mouth to move, to chew down and _meet_ the sinew above the bone, feel the shifting of cartilage and the restlessness of tensile skin. 

His breathing slows, clarifying to discomfort and a vaguely throbbing left hand. 

Blair lets go, still breathing, calmer now, _inhale exhale_ , feeling the air enter his circulation. 

He doesn't close his eyes and chant a mantra, the rhythms of free wheeling birds and strangely silent sky still strong in his mind. He looks straight ahead instead, letting his vision conform to the darkness, letting shapes familiarize and demystify. 

After a while he gets up and moves to the kitchen. 

The clock on his bedside table reads 4 a.m. 

* * *

Let's play the game ingenuity. While Blair knows Jim isn't focused on him 24 hours in a day, all sleeping homeowners register motion that seems out of sync with normal background noise. So Blair prepares to play the track 'eager student', a medley of sounds that Jim should be used to after four years of rooming with a teaching fellow. It involves open books and quietly booting up the computer, setting the kettle on to boil and padding about in sock-clad feet. 

The kettle hisses softly before automatically switching off. Blair pours hot water into the mug containing bits of lemongrass and honey, adding a spoon as an afterthought. 

The spoon clanks as he lifts the cup, so he sets it back down on the counter, waiting until he is certain his hands are steady enough not to drop scalding tea down the front of his Academy sweatshirt. While waiting, he continues to focus on breathing, the soft sound of air moving in and out of his lungs forming a comforting blanket over his thoughts. 

Three cups and two hours later, he finally makes it out to the balcony, where the sun is making its entrance. Slightly punch-drunk, Blair's leaning on the railing wondering whether to applaud when Jim stumbles downstairs, mumbling something on his way to the bathroom. 

"Hey," Blair replies, half-turning to catch the sight of sweat and sleep rumpled Jim trying to yawn and scratch his stomach at the same time. A feat of motor-coordination impossible before coffee, so Blair has already made him a pot. 

It's actually the pot Blair decided not to have, voting in favor of lemongrass tea instead, but Jim doesn't have to know that. 

"Coffee?" he suggests kindly to Jim who is fighting the battle of fingers versus doorknob. 

"Mm." Jim's teeth are bared in vicious triumph as the door opens then shuts behind him with a decisive thud. 

Blair grins and returns to watching the dawn. It rates a six, maybe seven on ten, he decides. 

Water is turned off, and the bathroom door opens softly, releasing a gust of steam. Clean-shaven, near-human Jim re-emerges in his bathrobe and cautiously pads towards the coffeemaker. He groans happily at the sight of the full jug. 

"Sandburg, I'm keeping you." 

"Ah, but can you afford me?" 

Jim snorts and pours his coffee. 

Silence except for the sound of drinking and the occasional quiet rush of air as a delivery truck passes below. 

"Sleep well?" Blair asks after a decent interval. 

"Mm." Jim walks over to the balcony, stopping slightly behind him. "You?" 

Blair shrugs nonchalantly and they stand for a while in companionable silence. The sun grows marginally warmer and when he glances sideways, Jim is stretching slightly towards it, eyes closed, looking idiotically blissful and completely unaware of scrutiny. 

Blair smiles. 

Finally Jim sighs and stretches out, almost absently grasping a lock of his friend's hair and twirling it between thumb and forefinger. "Can't get over how short it is," he says wistfully. 

Blair freezes; heart beating faster as Jim tugs lightly at the strand he's holding. 

(It takes six months for a story to become old news in Cascade, six months before the spectacular humiliation of losing his PhD. candidature faded to old news and Blair could walk relatively unscathed on the streets. Six months of avoiding the pretty gleam of razor blades and attempting not to piss off his partner any more than was absolutely necessary to assert independent alpha male status; six months of going down to the station to please Jim and enduring the general bonhomie of how long will it be before we send Sandburg to the academy and make a _real_ man out of him, not that long, ha-ha-ha...) 

Blair cut his hair three times in the six months before his enrollment forms were approved, telling Jim it wasn't symbolic or anything, except that it made it easier for him to walk the streets and anyway, it was something he should be getting used to, wasn't it? 

He'd lied then. He's lying now, telling himself he hates it when Jim does that. 

He doesn't say anything, as he's never said anything for a year now, only blanketed his mind in a way that's become familiar with over-use. But deep below the rhythm of his breath he can hear the rasp of hair against skin; feel the vibrations transmitted to his scalp and straight down south to his heart and below, completely bypassing brain. Involuntarily his eyes begin to close and he forces them open in shock, trying to keep breathing steady while Jim fondles his hair and softly rumbles. 

"Breakfast." 

After a while Blair manages a reply. 

"Polysyllables before seven. This could be a new record, Jim. Wow. I'll inform the Cascade Times but you have to leave the hair alone." He means the last part, he thinks. 

Jim lets go with a final tug. 

They stare out into the distance for a while, Blair carefully not thinking. 

"Eggs?" Jim's voice brings him back to reality. 

"Perfect." Relief makes him smile. Jim smiles back. 

"Great. They're in the fridge. I'll have mine scrambled." 

Blair rolls his eyes. "I hate you." 

Jim laughs and takes the empty mugs inside. Blair follows him, wondering if they have shallots. 

Several slices of toast and two egg-sculptures notwithstanding, they make the PD in good time. Jim nudges Blair, who looks up and catches Simon watching them with the 'I have imported beans in my office and you'd better not be sniffing' expression. 

They grin and buckle down to closing the Grinelli case, so they can have the report on Simon's desk by 11, which is coincidentally the time the man likes taking a coffee break. 

There are worse ways to start a week. 

* * *

At 11.15 they catch Simon in his office, hand him a neatly typed report and wait patiently until he pours out two cups of hand ground Peruvian import. 

Jim sips appreciatively, but tells Simon that he'd be surprised if the beans had ever seen the inside of a South American facility. 

Simon blinks and scowls at the inside of his mug. "Those sneaky bastards... I paid a fortune for this!" he looks up in wonder. "How can you tell?" 

Jim looks solemn. "I was in Peru for eight years, remember? Their coffee tastes like shit. This stuff is good. QED." 

Simon waits, then looks helplessly towards Blair who makes what-the-hell-do-I-know- _he's_ -the-Sentinel motions with his hands. Jim is still grinning as Blair tugs at his sleeve and leads him out of the office. 

"That was a bad, bad thing you did in there. Now every time he buys a new shipment he's going to call you in for a taste." 

"You think?" smirks Jim as Blair's cell phone goes off. 

It's Teresa from last night, confirming their dinner date. Blair smiles, going through the motions. 

As their dialogue progresses, his voice softens and his dick gets hard, so he turns away and takes deep breaths, having to finally end the conversation a little sooner than is strictly necessary. When he turns back to his partner, Jim's looking at him with a careful expression that Blair realizes has been perfected over the last three months since he joined as full-time detective, coincidentally about the same time the self-imposed ban on dating Sandburg was officially lifted from the population of Cascade. 

"I shouldn't wait up tonight?" Jim says, but the words stick in Blair's hearing, so he shrugs and leads the way back to their desk. After a moment, Jim follows. 

The clock reads 11.45. 

* * *

Jim is actually doing his share of paperwork. Blair leans back and flips his pen on his knuckles, counting the number of times it spins before falling off. 

Jim nudges him. "Stop that." 

"Nope." But he puts the pen down after a last twirl and leans his hands on the desk. Three sheets of paper slide under his nose. 

"Keep yourself occupied." 

Blair slides the sheets back to Jim, flipping him the bird. Jim returns the salute and returns to writing. 

Blair scuffs his shoes together, then taps his fingers on the desk. He's got a good rhythm going when a large hand descends on his. 

"What the hell is wrong with you?" 

"Relax, Jim." He pushes free and sends his chair swinging backwards. "Do the paperwork, my friend." 

"I would if you could stop acting like you have ants in your pants." Jim scowls. 

Their gazes intersect and Blair feels his cheeks grow a little warmer. He holds for about three seconds, which is two seconds too many before looking away, suddenly, unaccountably thinking of ravens and the sick place in his stomach. 

Behind him Jim breathes, once, twice, a little heavily. 

He doesn't look back until he hears Jim swivel back to his place. Concentrates on anything and nothing in particular, breathing for preference. 

When he can't take it anymore he goes to the washroom and stands there, hands braced on either sides of a sink, waiting incuriously for his mind to decide whether he's here to throw up or jerk off. 

Finally, he just bends down and splashes his face several times with water. 

When he returns to his desk, Jim carefully doesn't look at him, industriously scratching away at his papers. 

Blair seats himself and reaches out for the top three sheets on Jim's stack. 

Their eyes don't meet, but they complete their paperwork before 5. 

* * *

They took separate cars to work because Blair knew he'd have to leave earlier. And as he stands in front of his closet, running his hands along shirt after shirt, testing and deciding between textures he tries not to think of the phrase his mind automatically supplies to him. 

Separate cars to work. 

With an angry shrug he reaches in and brings out a black silk that should do the trick. Teresa likes to run her hands over him, closing her eyes in ecstasy at the feel of fabric. 

This is only the second fuck, but he has her pegged and classified, single, not in the market, not intending to change. They're in for release and nothing extra, which suits him just fine, emotionally. 

He tries not to think, focusing instead on breathing and getting dressed. Jim is out for the night as well, on town with the guys, who winked, nudged and wished him luck before steering his partner out the door. 

Jim wished him luck, didn't he? 

He throws his hairbrush down savagely and strides to the bathroom where he must have left his hair gel. Short hair or long, a man's best friend is his gel. 

The little box is hiding somewhere in the medicine cabinet, and he roots around till he finds it, in the process unearthing random strips of Tylenol, razor blades, an old hair tie that he must have forgotten to throw away and - 

Way back in a corner, a little packet with a silhouetted bunny rabbit, coyly proclaiming 'Extra-sensitive'. A little packet that he certainly didn't buy and for some reason its existence is truly, royally pissing him off. 

Extra-sensitive. Touchy-feely. 

_fuck_

He crushes it in his hand, then for some reason, slips it into the pocket of his jeans. Closes the bathroom door and begins the final stages of locking up. 

Teresa time. 

* * *

_Teresa..._

She lies in bed, waiting as he shucks his shirt, watching with hooded eyes for him to come to her. Blair smiles teasingly, undoing a button at a time, letting her wait, feeling the tension between them build slowly, knowing that this will be sharp, exquisite and exactly what he needs. 

There was a time when sensuality was something Blair appreciated in his bed partners. He used to spend hours in the play of skin on skin, teaching or learning, on several notable occasions, how to appreciate the sweet and sour hot spots, the little nodes of sensation that when tweaked, sent bolts of mutually appreciative ecstasy to heighten the sex and simulate, for one instant, a deeper connection. But now... 

Right now it's about needing to get his rocks off and getting off _hard_. It's about delving deep into a sweet luscious body and devouring the experience. Sipping and savoring is not something Blair does anymore. It's for people who can afford a relationship. 

Blair has a relationship. He has Jim. 

And for sex, there're interchangeable women like Teresa who pretend to ignore his reputation as a fraud, liar and tautological to boot, when in reality, the bad-boy image their mind supplies has them curling in their beds waiting for him to rip their inhibitions from their psyches and throw them right on the floor with their shoes. 

He wonders when he got so clinical, for that matter, when did he become some damn sexual _trophy_ \- then all thoughts fly out of his head when Teresa kneels, naked and cups her breasts invitingly. 

_Ah, Teresa..._

Teresa slithers to the edge of the bed and begins undoing his belt. Slides the length out and sensuously coils it around her hands before putting it down carefully and reaching up with long, graceful arms to pull him down for a hot, moist kiss that leaves Blair in no doubt that she's in love with the act, if not him for participating with her. 

In gratitude, he sucks her tongue into his mouth, gently but hungrily. 

Teresa moans and runs her hands through his hair, pulling on the strands. Blair sinks down on the bed with her, running his hands over her back, feeling the soft skin stretch over muscles, down to dimpled contours, grabs her ass and directs her to sit on his lap. She does, still luxuriously tousling his hair. 

He closes his eyes and imagines - imagines for a second, just a second, the feeling of warm calluses rubbing against his skin, raking the hair from his scalp with fingers at least as big as his own, the sensation, what it would be like to touch and crush his hands around the muscles of his back, would it feel like velvet over steel, hard and rugged, pocked with scars; what it might be like to run his hands over them, and taste each indentation with fingertips and ask him, very gently, if they hurt so could he kiss them if they still did- 

_SHIT_

Blair's arms are around her, this suddenly nameless, faceless woman, his eyes shut as he crushes his mouth to hers, letting her undress him only partway, enough to let the necessary bits go free, because he needs to be reminded how good it is to cup a woman's breasts in his hand, how soft they feel, and how the nipples rise when they're stroked - not like a man's, at least he doesn't think so but he's never going to get the opportunity to know is he - bucks and lets her climb on top of him, so finally when he drives up hungrily and angrily into her, he can run his hands over her back, her rigid and muscled back, taut with tension as he-she takes him and 

_fuck_

He comes, groaning, one hand grasping her hip, the other fist in his mouth, teeth tightening against skin, roughly but not permanently marking, just concentrating, helping him clarify and define this orgasm as occurring from _her_ muscles tightening around him, _her_ body wet and pliant and willing above him, and, and he drives in hard and upset, knowing, despite everything, that skin has morphed into skin under his hands and hoping, desperately hoping that if he called out a name it was hers. 

Whoever she is, still moaning and making little breathy sounds above him. 

* * *

When she asks him to stay the night, Blair wonders what she would do if he ever said yes to that, what he would do, if he even could surrender in somebody's arms - but that's a moot point and stupid really, because Blair made the choice years ago, leaping off a cliff, off a plane, no, throwing himself at and under a garbage truck, so he just kisses her on the lips and pets her until she falls into a doze. 

Jim's asleep, or the loft is dark when Blair reaches home. Asleep probably, the wall clock shows 12.35 in the morning. 

Blair takes his clothes off in his room and wraps a towel around his waist. He's already showered, but needs it again, not that Jim would hold it against him if he didn't 

_liar_

but it's become sort of a ritual now. Ritual cleansing. Orthodox Jews have been doing it for centuries and a completely unorthodox Jewish-by-default shaman has to take his rites as and when they come to him. 

He stands under the shower spray, holding, in spite of his already shivering body, determinedly letting freezing spikes of water pepper his chest, his back, running over the muscles and into the crevice of his ass, washing away feeling, wiping him clean of sensation, leaving him free of all thought but that it's cold and his dick is shriveling under the icy assault. 

He turns the shower off. Wipes himself thoroughly, wondering how the fabric of this towel would feel to hyperactive senses, remembering that they bought these towels together because there was some sort of bulk sale at Worth's and he could tell Jim liked the idea of color-coordinating the bathroom. 

Feeling like each loop and thread pushing out from the main body of cloth could and will stimulate his skin if he allows himself to feel, Blair walks into his room and falls naked onto the bed. 

He is asleep in minutes. 

* * *

/when you dream are you the dream or who is the dream who dreams in you... against sand and grit losing texture when you look away, look up and see the dark shapes circle higher in the sky, no shadow, no sound, no feeling or sensation, just the ever clearer shapes waiting watching waiting watching waiting watching waiting watching / 

/in eternal stasis is it paralysis or can't you move you can't feel nor dream nor name nor hear / 

/wait for them watching you, watching wheeling circling overhead in a pale red sky the color of sunrise and sunset and cloudless somewhere in between and you close your eyes but still can see so you wait to wake and refuse to dream/ 

/and you wait and you wait and you wait and you wait/ 

/till finally, you tell yourself, now you will scream/ 

* * *

II 

The call comes in at 5 a.m. Blair is ready for it, or so it seems to Jim when he comes downstairs and sees his partner dressed and speaking softly into the phone. 

He extends his hearing and doesn't catch the cadences that signal 'Simon', so decides not to listen harder for words. Blair will tell him what he needs to know. Instead he reflexively extends other parts of himself to survey the night, senses that really have no name or definition, though Sandburg would probably call them electromagnetic pulses and come up with ideas to meter his responses - 

A flutter in the background and he realizes it's Blair's heartbeat that has skipped momentarily before settling down to normalcy. 

Jim waits while Blair completes his conversation, waits, cataloguing with a suddenly clearer vision the subtle signals of another sleepless night - cup, half-full of bittersweet lemon and honey; books, their pages idly thumbed, a scattered blanket, cushions in disarray and in the corner, Blair's PC still whirring softly in the background. 

Blair replaces the receiver and turns to face him, voice calm and steady as he says, "That was Homicide, Jim. There's been a murder-suicide in Maple East and they need me down at the station." 

"Can't Homicide deal with this on their own?" asks Jim before he recognizes the address and the use of 'me'. 

Blair smiles oddly and collects his car keys from the basket by the door. 

"Don't wait up, Jim," and he's half way out the door before Jim regains the use of his brain and lunges, snagging a shoulder in passing. 

"Shit, Chief!" 

Blair is passive as Jim pulls him back, pushing him against the wall, not roughly, but to hold him there. And Jim breathes unsteadily, looking into his friend's eyes, clear and blue, charting the planes of the face, jaw steady, not overtly stiff, expression neutral, everything, in fact, everything in perfect order and untroubled as though the woman dead at Maple East was not or had never been Blair's date for an evening or even \- if Jim smells correctly and nauseatingly - his enthusiastic and generous partner in bed. 

"Give me a minute to get dressed," he says finally and waits for Blair's nod before releasing him. 

* * *

"No I didn't know she was married. Engaged, whatever." Blair says to the uniformed officer. "She never wore a ring, so I guess it never really came up." 

"We hadn't been going out together long. Can't say I know that much about her." 

Jim closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, head against the wall, filtering through the quiet rustlings of the PD at half strength, letting the vibrations of Blair's voice pass through the wall and straight into his skull which feels heavy and over-used. 

A softer rumble, which he imagines is the female officer's voice. He doesn't bother to check for words. He knows the drill, and even if he didn't Blair's responses will tell him what he needs to know. 

There's a pause before Blair answers. Jim twists his head and wishes Sentinel vision extended to x-rays. 

At least his partner's heartbeat is still steady. 

"She did ask me to spend the night, but I didn't." 

Jim tilts his head, trying to understand how that would sound to an observer. Defensive? Neutral? Angry? Upset? 

"No, she'd never asked me before tonight." Blair swallows, but his next words are firm and evenly spaced. "No, I didn't think anything was wrong. She wasn't particularly nervous, no, we were great. She was fine." 

"It was only the second time I'd met her... I didn't really want to spend the night." 

"I must have left around 11, maybe 11.10 latest. I reached the loft past midnight - I checked the clock." 

Normal, Jim decides. Blair's voice is rational and utterly normal. He wonders if that is good or bad. 

"I normally check the time I reach home, because Jim has this thing about flushing the toilet after 10." Quick clarification. "That's Detective James Ellison, my partner in Major Crimes. We share an apartment." 

A pause, a question, and a longer pause that Jim understands. He presses his head harder against the wall, willing something, he doesn't know what, strength, support, brains, anything, while waiting for the answer he knows will come. 

He hears Blair swallow and imagines the look on his friend's face as he says these words. 

"She was fine when I left." 

* * *

The investigating officer is kind enough to stop by Jim on her way out. 

"Detective Ellison?" 

He gets to his feet. 

"You might want to go home. We need a statement. Might be a while." 

Jim exhales. "Blair asked you to say that?" 

She nods and smiles cautiously. Jim smiles back, which seems to relieve her. 

"Were you the officer on the scene?" 

She grimaces. "Sort of. I was coming upstairs when I heard the shot. My partner's in Emergency right now, having his ears attended to. He was two meters away when Boysen decided to blow his brains out." 

Boysen would have been the fiance. Jim winces. 

"Can I go in?" he asks. 

She looks at the door and back at him. Shrugs. 

Jim thanks her and opens the door. 

Blair is sitting quietly, hands folded in his lap. He looks up at Jim, then wiggles his fingers. "Hey." 

Jim shuts the door behind himself. "Hey." Takes a seat, wondering how to approach this. 

Blair saves him the trouble. "I'm not in custody." 

Jim nods. "I know, Chief." 

"Ah," Blair drums lightly on the table, then leans back and folds his hands. "You heard. Open and shut case." He exhales and gets to his feet, pacing the five-meter strip between his chair and the door. "They need a statement anyway... could be a while." 

"I'm staying." 

Blair stops and smiles at him. "I know, Jim." Looks around mournfully. "Think you could spring for a cup of coffee?" 

The nearest vending machine is in the corridor leading to Major Crimes. By the time Jim returns with two sodden cardboard cups, the stenographer's arrived and he's not allowed inside anymore. 

He sends one cup in anyway and sits in a yellow plastic chair, trying very hard not to think. 

* * *

It's almost 8 by the time Blair is done and he wants to go straight on to breakfast, insisting he's starving and they don't have time to go home before reporting in for the day. 

Jim gives in of course. The most stupid, sick, _senseless_ crime in the history of passion... the least he can do is buy Blair breakfast. 

"...pancakes, if you're buying, but with fruit topping only. We're eating healthy, even if we are eating large." 

Jim glances at him and notes that his color is even, his heart appears to be pumping correctly and his breathing is so regular a yoga master would be put to shame. 

Blair pretends not to notice. 

They stop at the elevator and Jim turns with sudden urgency. "Take a sick day, Chief. Take a personal day. Go home. Sleep." 

Blair blinks and for a second something clouds his eyes, only for a second, because it's gone so fast. Then he smiles and pats Jim's shoulder. "I'm fine, Jim. Just hungry." 

"Then we'll eat, but I drive you home straight after." He crosses his arms and waits for the inevitable retort, but it never comes. 

Instead Blair frowns for a moment, considering before nodding his head. "You might be right at that." He yawns, covering his mouth with his hand. "I am a little tired," he says, and reaches to summon the elevator. 

Jim's gaze is drawn to the hand dangling at his friend's side. Eyes focus, narrowing, at the raised red bruise that wasn't there just a minute ago. 

The elevator dings. 

"Ride's here," says Blair, hopping in with all the nonchalance you wouldn't expect of a man who just bit his hand hard enough to draw blood. 

After a moment, Jim follows. 

* * *

III 

Blair feels light and inconsequential, his body divorced from inner id and fear. He chats breezily with the waitress who takes their order and grins at Jim before launching into a stack of pancakes with appropriate fruit toppings. 

He's getting really good at this detach with love thing. 

Jim watches him silently. Blair pretends not to notice until his partner changes the rules of the game. 

"I didn't know Teresa had a boyfriend." 

Blair pauses in the act of flagrantly buttering a pancake. He looks at the knife for a second, up at Jim and down at the knife again. 

"Neither did I," he says easily. "We weren't exactly what you'd call close." He looks at Jim's plate. "If you're not going to eat that -" 

"I'm hungry, Chief." But Jim doesn't take his eyes off Blair who rolls his eyes and reaches across to put a fork in Jim's hand. 

"Here. Eat -" 

Jim's hand reaches out at the same time, capturing his. 

Blair's eyes drop, magnetized to the sight of hand within hand. 

Time stops 

"Not what you'd call close?" 

...and starts again with the sound of Jim's disbelief. 

Carefully edging his hand out of Jim's, Blair nods. "We were just... dating. Nothing serious." _No one was going to get hurt_

He feels Jim's shock, feels it like a body blow and covers it like he does everything else, with a blanket of breath and a calm that covers, however thinly, the howling wilderness inside. 

Blair stares at his pancake and cuts it into tiny pieces with precise movements. He puts one into his mouth, chews, then swallows. 

They taste light and fluffy, the way he likes them. An undertone of burnt sugar perhaps, and he reaches out for his coffee to cover the taste. 

Mistake. 

As he looks up he catches Jim's eye, Jim's careful and expressionless face that is sitting there watching and recording and wondering - 

"Is this what this is about, Jim?" Blair says softly. "You think I'm being callous? You think I'm indifferent to the fact that the woman I used to fuck is dead?" 

Slight emphasis on _fuck_. Jim flinches, but shakes his head. 

"Callous wouldn't explain this." And he looks straight at Blair's left hand, where grooves too shallow for any normal eye are still throbbing a pale, light red, the look and expression sending a bolt of pure excitement through and into Blair. 

_Busted_

Blair feels his heart beat, sure and steady. He feels the blood in his pulse, the thrum of his veins and dimly, very dimly understands that he's in a state of high excitement. Euphoria. Near sexual in its clarity. The kind of wantonness that makes murderers return to the scenes of their crime, serial killers write books about their lives and one exhibitionist, slightly masochistic detective bite his hand in full view of his Sentinel partner. 

Blair looks at Jim looking at his hand, wanting very, very desperately for Jim to look at him with the same intensity. 

His wish is granted. 

Jim reaches out and takes his hand, gently this time, rubbing his thumb near the area of maximum damage. Blair wonders if he could get away with a whimper, charge it down to pain. He doubts he could explain his erection, however, so he clamps down, dialing down, he realizes mockingly, as he's become so used to. 

"Why, Chief?" Jim's thumb is touching him, lightly stroking and for a second, Blair is convinced that hypersensitivity is contagious and communicated tactilely. 

Silence swirls, charged and tense with some growing emotion. Jim's eyes darken and he stops rubbing, but his hand remains on Blair's, still touching. Which gives Blair the courage to speak, very softly, but he speaks. 

"Take me home, and I'll tell you, Jim." 

After a pause that lasts seconds 

_infinity_

Jim nods and lets him go. 

* * *

In the truck, Blair is definitely euphoric. Light, floating, disembodied yet thoroughly grounded. He feels the seats thrumming beneath him, watches Jim's hands clench the steering wheel and absently notes streets flashing by at regular intervals. 

At one of these intervals, he carefully places his hand, palm flat, on Jim's knee. 

Jim swallows. 

Blair watches Jim swallow, the movement of throat muscles mesmerizing in his current state. 

Experimentally, he flexes his palm, then grips a little harder. 

Jim sets his jaw and presses the accelerator just a little bit extra. 

Entranced and strangely amused, Blair doesn't press his luck, but returns his hand to its proper place. 

They make it to 852 Prospect in record time. 

* * *

/bleed into the grass. Bleed into the sky. Feel the blood in your veins and the power of your heart leach into eternity. Hungry and circling, the scavengers wait for you to die. For you to heal. For a decision to be made, one way or the other/ 

/she-na Morrigan, the Raven Purdru wheels in the sky above you. Dance to her tune or dance not at all. Wait and watch till your soul bleeds dry. Or take it in your hands and make the leap/ 

/But you are paralyzed. You lie/ 

/you lie. You lie/ 

/Lie and watch the scavengers wheeling in the sky. They shall feast on your corpse or they shall feast not at all. The choice is yours. The choice is yours/ 

/your choice/ 

/but who are you?/ 

/call for yourself. Call yourself a name/ 

/name yourself. And then. Die/ 

* * *

Blair knows his eyes are bright in the semi-darkness. Their windows are closed, blinds and shutters down. The door is closed and they are alone, Jim and he, standing in the living room while in and about him exhilaration pounds. 

Jim is watching him, waiting for his cue. 

Blair knows this. He feels it. The power in the room. 

His. All his. 

For the first. _Fucking_. Time. 

"She asked me to stay with her," he says softly and watches Jim sag, as though hit by a body blow. Blair shakes his head, smiling, feeling his partner's responses, knowing and predicting them as surely as he knows what will happen in a minute, an hour, after five fucking _years_ of dancing blindly around architecture. 

Jim Ellison takes orders. He loves taking orders. He finds security in them, in people in authority. 

Blair is in charge here. And Jim knows it. 

"She asked me to stay the night with her," he repeats and shakes his head. "But I didn't. I never do, Jim." 

He watches the strings that hold Jim tighten, watches the tautness in Jim's shoulders, watches entranced as his words breathe action from silence. 

"I've never stayed the night, Jim. And I always think of you." 

With the same sense of fatalistic glee that led him to jump off a cliff and follow this man through a jungle, Blair pounces. 

They fall. 

* * *

IV 

Jim overbalances as Blair jumps on him, Sandburg _jumps_ him and they fall in a crazy tangling heap onto the floor. 

Blair rises above him, breathing hard. His hands are braced on either side of Jim's head, his face is close enough to kiss - except they aren't damn it, are they? Are they going to? - and his knees are hooked on either side of Jim's legs, placing their groins in near alignment. 

Something is pressing into Jim's thigh. Something... hard and he is going to shut up now and stop thinking because Blair is in charge here and Blair knows it. And all Jim can do is go along for the ride and pray he'll have place to stand when the merry-go-round stops and Blair shoves him off it. 

"I think of you all the time," Blair says, his eyes fever-bright, his voice low and husky. "I thought of you when I kissed her. I thought of you kissing me. I pretended it was your hands in my hair and your tongue in my mouth and I never ever fucked her on top because then I couldn't pretend that you were fucking me." 

There is something wrong, something sick and wrong about this, and when his brain comes back from the red-hot zone between his legs, Jim is going to tell Blair exactly what is wrong with this scene. But for now, he will just breathe heavily and inhale Sandburg scent, zone on the Sandburg zone and ignore the sick, dropping feeling in the pit of his stomach for the far more beautiful feel of Blair sitting on him, Blair's breath caressing him, feathering his jaw and tickling his nose. 

Blair moans quietly, pressing his dick into the juncture of Jim's thigh. "Feel that," he murmurs, arching a little, bending closer so that the words aim straight for Jim's ears, "Feel that, Jim? Feel me wanting you? I want you, Jim, God help me, I want you, tell me you want it too, tell me, man, tell me -" and when Blair suddenly chucks words to demonstrate with his tongue, Jim gets with the program and arches up into the warm, wet, waiting cavern that is Sandburg's, Blair's, his Guide's mouth. 

Names, what the fuck are names? Two people can become one this way, a better way than the leaping and merging of animal spirits, when spit and tastes mingle and are exchanged while Blair in his enthusiasm nips slightly at the corner of Jim's mouth and his teeth are getting sharper or something, so now Jim understands the red abrasions at the side of his Shaman's hand and something is knocking on the door of his mind, a big fat something is standing and yelling 'Hello!' but he will attend to it later because he could get used to this, used to the stubble abrading his skin, used to the breath smelling of yogurt and coffee and chopped apricots, used to the hands, used to _his_ hands running through Blair's hair the way he's wanted to since, since forever - 

And Blair moans into his mouth, moans and moves, wriggling in enthusiasm, no in, in fear - Jim groans as Blair pulls back, and raises heavy-lidded eyes, panting slightly, trying to keep up with the shift in moods. 

Blair is staring at Jim, at Jim's mouth, still wet and sloppy from their kiss, and the look in his eyes, the scent in the room is of _hunger_ , pure, undisguised hunger and Jim's not surprised that Blair is afraid. He's afraid too. He's coming-in-his-pants afraid that this is the shortest, most exquisite ride of his life and Blair will never let him back on the merry-go-round. 

Then Blair reaches out with a shaking finger and traces the contours of Jim's lips. 

"Aw, Jim..." and Jim opens his mouth, drawing the tip in, feeling Blair freeze, so he sucks lightly, _politely_ , letting Blair know that he's welcome, he's more than welcome to visit, to come right in and make himself at home and he's rewarded soon enough by the sight of Blair's eyes closing, Blair's breath heaving and his free hand traveling carefully down the seam of his own jeans, gently but inexorably drawing the zipper down to - to free 

Jim watches Blair, watches Blair open his eyes and watch him watching them as Blair reaches into his jeans and pulls out his cock, grown hard and definitely, most definitely real, releasing a cloud of undeniably male sweat and something heavier, maybe musk, sight and scent sharp and in combination reminding Jim, hitting him with the clear reality of who where what he is and who he's doing it with. 

And Blair waits for Jim to draw back, waits for Jim to realize and buck, throwing him off, and when Jim doesn't, merely kissing the rest of Blair's palm which rests against his cheek, Blair sighs. 

Blair sighs, so Jim kisses his palm again, lifting his hands to Blair's hips, not holding, not placing, just reminding Blair who _he_ is, and hoping like hell Blair will want to remember. 

And Blair lets his eyes droop shut again, palm against Jim's jaw, other hand holding, cupping his cock, feeling its weight as he says sadly, "It's not like making love to a woman, is it, Jim?" 

Jim feels his heart grow loud, louder, louder than he's ever heard it, and forces his attention to the matter at hand. "No," he rasps, "no it isn't." 

Blair doesn't seem to notice, removing his hand from Jim's face with a pat, using both hands now, slicking them in his mouth first before he cups his dick and makes two fists around it, base and head. "Not like... not like a woman, Jim. When was the last time...Jim? For you, huh? No, don't tell me," as if Jim would, as if Jim would dare, "don't tell me. Let me tell you. Tell you... have I told you yet, Jim?" and Blair leaves his cock alone to blind-walk his fingers up Jim's chest, undoing shirt buttons all the way to expose the flesh beneath. 

Warm day. No wife-beater. Jim sucks in his breath at the feel of Blair's naked hands on his chest. 

Blair breathes, panting, leaning forward, close enough, close enough to kiss. His fingers move around, getting acquainted with muscles and skin, touching, lightly running over nipples, paying special and lavish attention to the area around them, finally leaning completely down, letting his lips touch Jim and a tentative tongue flicks out to taste. 

Jim groans. A name. 

"Sandburg..." 

"Oh man, no. Not like that at all," Blair's words are hushed, reverent, slightly muffled by his position on Jim's chest. "Not soft, hard. Hard like... like I imagined it, Jim. I always wondered... always wondered what it would be like, huh? You know? Me on you, touching you... when I touch you I don't remember Jim," he says unsurprised. "Knew I wouldn't remember anything, not after you... not after skin on skin," and Blair's cock is spongy hard between their bodies, pressed into Jim's groin, feeding him warmth and definite signals and whatever Jim Ellison is, he's no saint, thank God no, no saint... so he scrabbles between their bodies, relishing the occasional feel of Blair as he tries to unzip without causing a major casualty. 

Blair sighs into Jim, eyelashes fluttering against his skin. "Oh man..." he sits up and moves slightly to allow Jim greater access, watching wistfully and intensely as Jim finally manages to release his cock, hard and getting harder, warm-soft steel in his hand, mimicking Blair's position as if to beg, 'share'. 

"Oh man, look at that," and Blair begins to stroke himself carefully. "Is that what you want Jim? You want me to put my mouth there? Huh? You want my mouth on your dick?" 

Jim's fingers tighten around his cock. "Blair..." he rasps. 

"Or, or - or maybe you want to fuck me, Jim?" Blair hisses as his fingers move in reciprocal harmony, as if it's Jim's hand on both of them, or maybe they're really one person because how else would Blair be able to read his mind so easily. Or not... he's never thought about mechanics and ways of loving, only that Blair feels good, that Blair has always felt good, and the day their souls merged before Blair coughed water up onto him, he was thinking how it felt so good, so fucking good that he'd kill, that he'd die, if Blair wouldn't live, because death would be no price to pay to have that communion again. And now, Jim is watching Blair on top of him, fisting his cock, and breathing his name and it should be his wet dream except, except for that something in his mind, standing outside the gates and screaming for attention 

and the something is _Blair_ , Blair's voice in fear, and hunger, and needy arousal, but also fear and sadness and lust as he stares at Jim and touches himself, wetting his upper lip with his tongue. "You want me, Jim? How much more do you want from me, Jim? Life, soul, heart, man? You want to fuck me as well? You got all of me and you still want more \- how much more, Jim?" He bends down and sucks Jim's bottom lip, kissing passionately for all that it's hurtful, "Why are you in me, man? Why aren't you in me, Jim? Why can't I lose you? Need you, Jim, want you in me, _need_ you touching me - you wanna touch me, Jim? Wanna fuck me?" 

"Sandburg -" Jim releases one hand to cup the beloved head against his, run greedy fingers through wisps and curls of hair, stroke and tentatively make circles like he's wanted to forever, moaning all the while, "Sandburg \- Blair, damn it, ah no, Chief. God, no." 

_yes_ , his mind whispers treacherously. _yes_ , _yes_ , _yes_ , yes to fucking him, yes to him fucking you, yes to fucking _anything_ that keeps you together, so he spreads the hand against Blair's scalp, pressing Blair to his neck, closing his eyes on the feel of lips on his neck, breathing in hitches, as Blair repeats his offer - or is it punishment? And for whom? 

"You wanna fuck me, Jim?" 

"I _want_ you, Blair," he forces the reply. "I want you... want you anyway." Anyway, which way, but Blair doesn't have to know that. 

"I want you." He repeats inanely. "Want you." Looking for the right words, and he thinks he's found them, "Want you... to fuck me," but the last is said so softly he fears Blair mightn't have heard, isn't sure if he has the strength to say it again, but thank God, he feels Blair freeze against him, freeze, then spasm, spasm and begin thrusting, thrusting in pain, in hunger, in reciprocity as Jim bucks against him and their cocks are aligned by merciful providence. Despite being un-slicked, they're not rubbed raw by the few layers of fabric because tactile sensation and roughness are too much for Jim, who is too much for Blair and wet heat soaks wet heat as the two of them shudder against each other. Arms holding. Collapsing. As the barriers that were erected when Blair gave everything to Jim finally, painfully, necessarily are breached. 

Coming. Opening. Feeling. 

Gone. 

_Alone_ again. 

The shakes start. 

* * *

Jim presses Blair to him, encircling him tightly, shivering. Controls himself for a second, then shivers again. Feels reciprocal shakes in his partner's body and rubs his back, rubs in calm soothing circles, trying to impart a security he doesn't feel himself. 

Is rewarded by Blair gently pulling up and away from him, looking down with quiet, anguished eyes and a voice that does not beg, or ask, but says as a statement of fact, "Come inside, Jim. Come with me. Now." 

Jim doesn't even think. He just. Follows. 

Body rock hard and steady while he's still shivering inside. 

* * *

V 

On his back, thinks Jim. On his back would be best. That way he can see and touch and taste Blair, remind himself that this is the man who gave him his life - twice - not that he needs the reminder, but it would be nice to be able to feel all of Blair. He can do it on his back. 

"Lie down," says Blair, quietly undressing on the other side of the room, futon separating them. "Take off your clothes and lie down. On your stomach." He pauses, flicker of uncertainty. "Supposed to be easier that way." 

Jim inhales, but complies. He can do it with his back facing Blair. 

Might even be easier that way. 

Fingers shake as he attempts to undo buttons, trying not to think of how he must look, spent cock limp and dangling from the half-open v of his pants, shirt half undone, gobs of semen and sweat everywhere. 

The shirt comes off, shaking. He looks around vaguely for a place to put it, feels it taken out of his hands and tossed onto the floor, and that studied carelessness gives him the courage to look at Blair who's sitting on the edge of the bed, stark naked and - Jim sneaks a peek - getting hard, too, his hands braced on Jim's pelvis, pulling Jim closer so he can pull the zipper down completely. Quickly, impartially, then sliding the denim off Jim's hips, Jim intercepting and completing the maneuver, stepping out off and kicking them away, then waiting, foolishly as Blair leans slowly into him, pressing his face into Jim's abdomen, resting his face against the least sticky parts, tentatively inhaling. 

Jim breathes. Or tries to breathe, his fists clenching spasmodically. 

Blair presses a tiny kiss to Jim's navel, a miniscule kiss, a mere contact of lips, but Jim feels his heart close to breaking. 

He doesn't realize that his arms are around Blair, hugging his friend \- his friend, he reminds himself, not that he needs a reminder, but this is his _friend_ \- hugging his friend for support. 

Another kiss and Blair frees himself, looking up with a quiet smile. "On the bed, Jim." Tiny hesitation. Softer tone, "Please?" 

This being a request, Jim does as he is asked, keeping one hand on Blair's shoulder, a finger at the side of his jaw, some form of contact as he moves onto the mattress. Blair, being Blair, recognizes the need and clasps Jim's hand firmly, watching him settle, and nudging him into position. 

"I'll be right back, Jim," gripping his hand for an instant before carefully releasing it. 

Jim lies on his stomach, legs splayed, feeling cool air on his butt and ignoring it in favor of following Blair with his hearing. 

He hears the bathroom door open, Blair rummaging inside the cabinet, a soft gulp that might be laughter, might be stifled nausea and soon, the soft cacophony of flesh slapping against floor and cock against thigh that is Blair returning. 

He closes his eyes and waits for Blair, feels the shift in texture that indicates Blair has entered the room, opening one eye in surprise, twisting his neck to check when Blair doesn't come back immediately. 

Blair is rooting through a heap of discarded clothing, his assets displayed prominently - Jim swallows, throat dry - as he bends down and comes up again, clutching a small box in his hand. 

Jim swallows again, recognizing. Condoms. 

Reality bites at regular intervals and when it does, it bites _hard_. 

He nestles his head more comfortably against the mattress, feeling the air swirl warmer as Blair approaches the bed, suppresses a groan of amazed delight as Blair runs a hand tenderly through his hair, but oofs in astonishment as Blair swings himself onto the mattress, astride his hips. 

Flesh on flesh, and the intimacy of the contact is enough to set his pulse leaping, the strangeness sufficient to restrain arousal. 

He could get used to this, Jim decides. Definitely. Used. 

"I'm going to open you, Jim," Blair says quietly, and he nods in reply, hearing something being unscrewed and feeling ridiculously glad for the covering of Blair's body on top of him. 

A new scent in the air, and a hand between his legs, Blair asking him to 

"Open," 

so he does, despite the fist clenching his heart and the shakes he's trying desperately not to let out. 

Finger at his hole and this is too much, he doesn't know whether to dial up or dial down; up for preference, but then he tightens, so _down_ then, forcing himself to relax. 

"Just relax, Jim," Blair, sounding uncertainly certain, palm caressing the cheeks of Jim's ass, "relax, and uh, let me..." 

Jim nods and does. This time the intrusion is easier and he lets himself adjust, realizing with a sudden shock of amusement that his is a Sentinel body, which means hyperactivity everywhere, and perhaps, if he's lucky enough, he's going to find out why thirty percent of Cascade's males enjoy being gay - 

_Gay_

The word renews his shivers, so he concentrates instead on Blair, on the soft whoosh of breath entering and leaving Blair's lungs, on the still pungent scent of their mingled semen, the little shifts as Blair moves atop his legs, leaning this way and that for easy access. And suddenly, it isn't as hard, this finger inside him, this part of Blair - _Blair_ \- connecting them, and the thought that Blair wants him, obviously wants to be with him, has thought _of_ Jim while - he can't follow the thought to the logical conclusion, preferring instead to concentrate on the amazing fact that Blair has wanted him, has wanted him for a long time and finally, now, they're here, together 

With _two_ fingers and more, stretching and preparing him and as Blair shifts in a certain way, Jim feels a stab that runs through his body like lightning, tightening his balls and making him squeeze. 

"Do that again," he breathes and is that his voice sounding so breathless? So needy? Just on the off chance it isn't, he repeats the request, startled to recognize himself, shades of Jim Ellison that he never knew existed. 

But Blair is grinning, pressing kisses up and down the column of Jim's spine as he complies, and from then on it's easier, it takes the rhythm of poetry again, of something rare and wonderful, and maybe even beautiful and it helps that Blair has found his voice, that Blair is speaking to him in the tone of husky need that he recognizes now as Blair's 'Guide' tone in a different context. 

Make that the right context, because this is the voice, this is the rhythm that he wants to hear for the rest of his life, and as he relaxes into the tone, the flow of the words, he smiles, feeling and hearing his need echoed. 

A startlingly different pressure, and Jim freezes. 

"Shit," Blair pants. Jim groans and tries to relax. 

"Sorry," he mutters, and Blair pats him distractedly. 

"No, no, shit, let me think - yea, yea, push down, bear down, Jim, but don't you dial down, I don't want to hurt you, I want you to tell me if I hurt you, but first you got to, got to push, man, yea, like that, only a bit more, almost there," 

"I _have_ had some experience, Sandburg," Jim growls, and in retaliation hears a pop, feels the give and push as Blair slides in, almost halfway, angry and hard inside him, the pain a fiery necessity anchoring him to reality. 

"Oh no you _haven't_ , Ellison," Blair snarls, hands moving higher up Jim's back, pressing and contorting the muscles, yet oddly gentle at the occasional scar. "You've never done _anything_ like this before. You've never felt _anything_ like this. Understand?" and Jim nods, muffles yes, because who the hell would do this, let alone want it, this burning in their ass, the slow leak of tortured tissue, the fill and slide of blood against skin 

But it's his blood and Blair's skin, and when Blair presses in with renewed gentleness, Jim gives, hell, he arches back and takes him in as much as possible, ignoring the feel of rough cotton against his cock, ignoring the fact that his erection has died and may soon be rubbed halfway to hell, ignoring everything but the feel and knowledge that this is happening, that this is it and after this 

After this, Blair will never, never leave him. 

Never. Ever. 

Ever. Please. 

_Like_ that, Jim arches, not sure if it's the adrenaline, the pulse of Blair inside him or the sheer giddiness of the thought that Blair is with him. But too soon for his slightly reviving cock, he feels Blair thrust, anticipates the slight tenseness and relaxes his heart, relaxes his mind, relaxes everything, waiting for Blair to finish with him. 

Blair doesn't. Instead he lies on top of Jim, covering every square inch possible, hands roaming down Jim's side, chest hair slightly scratchy and lips sucking lightly, words occasionally coming clear from the press of skin on skin. 

"...in you... beautiful...oh Jim, man, you're so goddamn beautiful... feel that? Feel you around me, feeling you, I hear you..." 

Jim angles his head and Blair is there, waiting to capture his mouth in a kiss, giving, pouring an overload of sensation; moisture, heat, the taste of fruit and hint of coffee, Jim's own salt and - word he never thought to use for a man - pretty, _pretty_ need, and filters go to hell as Jim basks in the stimulus, feels his temperature rise and his nerves begin to function again, feels his heart expand and his chest contract with what, he is certain as he has never before been certain, is love and lust and a combination of needs. 

And Blair kisses him back, lifting his hips slightly, bracing his knees against the mattress to gain purchase before thrusting in again. 

Again. 

Jim moans, and is swallowed by the kiss. 

They kiss again, and again, once more, before the urgency of motion and the necessity of their bodies separates them, Blair pressing his face into Jim's back, kissing the indentations in the shoulders, fingers gripping tightly, spurring him on to completion - and at the instant of his orgasm, Jim feels, Jim hears Blair raise his fist to his mouth and bite down greedily, and wonders if this is how Blair will remember this moment, if this is his way of concentrating reality, with pain and need and friction and blood reminding him who he is with, who he is _in_ , and for a brief moment Jim hopes Blair will want to remember this, before the orgasm from hell overtakes him, overtakes them both, but its Jim who rubs his cock raw in the process. 

But who the hell cares, right? 

This is right. Or had better be. 

He feels Blair's breath on his shoulder, on his arms, on his neck, feels the rise and fall of Blair's chest conveyed through skin, feels and mourns the softening cock inside him but rejoices in the beginning. 

It has to be a beginning. 

Right? 

Right. 

Blair slips free. 

The clock on the bedside table reads 10.42 a.m. 

* * *

VI 

* * *

Blair withdraws carefully, knots the condom and reaches out to drop it in the basket near the bed. 

He glances at the clock. 10.43. There are things he should do, he should get up, call Simon, get a washcloth, hold Jim. 

He's not ready for anything yet but holding Jim; kissing and running his hands over his back, his shoulders, learning the contours and textures he's been dreaming of so long. 

Jim groans and turns carefully, gathering Blair to him, aligning their torsos, fitting Blair's head into the crook of his neck. 

"Hold me, man," Blair whispers into the other man's skin, feeling himself relax, eyes closing as Jim grabs him securely, keeping him safe from his dreams. 

"You don't ask for much, do you Chief?" Jim whispers, gently stroking Blair's back. 

Blair dreams. 

* * *

/call this a waking dream. Feel the torn fur and the gaping wounds, cast down your eyes from the petrified sky and realize who and what you are/ 

/you are wounded. You are prey. You finally see/ 

/ you thought it would be easy. You thought they'd leave/ 

/ _try not to look at the sky_ / 

/ you should have stayed the night/ 

* * *

_FUCK_

Blair bolts upright, his hand heavier on its way to his mouth, accompanied and covered by Jim's larger palm. 

Jim holds fast. 

"You promised you'd tell me," he says then stops, body vibrating with reciprocal tension. 

"Blair?" 

Blair breathes, trying to calm himself, refusing to register the presence of flesh against his, the words spoken softly at first then with greater urgency to penetrate the blankness he surrounds himself with. But there's a limit to dialing down, so he wrenches himself from the bed, stumbles to the bathroom and locks the door behind so he can breathe in comfort. 

He breathes over the sink, not vomiting even though his throat is dry. Breathes, inhale-exhale, promising himself that nothing has changed, he still is and always was the man who keeps on breathing. 

When he finally calms enough to stand shivering and splashing water on his face, it occurs to him mildly that this kind of behavior after sex with Jim might just send the wrong signals. 

Sex with Jim, he had sex with Jim, they've had sex, they've done the thing, had sex with Jim... 

Certifiable, he's _certifiably_ _cuckoo_... he just had _sex_ with _Jim_ , what kind of an _idiot_

Blair shivers, trying to breathe, to calm his mind, thinking of ragged fur and bleeding places that an animal needs to hide from scavengers. 

He turns the shower on. 

* * *

The water is freezing, but Blair was shivering even before he entered the shower. 

He stands, hands braced on either wall, head down and eyes closed, letting the water beat on him. 

One hand makes the rapid journey upwards, his mouth opening hungrily to press on skin. He tastes his own salt on the reddening ridges where his teeth scored, and the pain makes him stop short of biting, viciously turning off the shower instead. 

_Fuck_

It used to be that he controlled himself through the release that blunt teeth provided, all his pain and fearful agony leaking out in carefully timed doses through the rake of bone against skin. But now... 

Now Blair wraps a towel around himself, conscious of the droplets beading on his skin, of the water trickling through the hairs on his chest, catching, dropping, conscious above all that he is going to leave the bathroom and walk across to his bedroom wrapped in nothing but a towel. 

He's hoping, as he does this, that Jim's not going to be waiting for him, wanting at the same time for Jim to be there, wanting even more not to need him. 

So let's play the game let's pretend. 

Let's pretend this never happened. 

Only for a little while till he can provide damage control. 

* * *

It's half-past noon when Blair finally emerges from his room, fully dressed and decent. The kitchen is warm with the scent of steam. The kettle is boiling, his mug ready near it, a sachet of lemon tea already inside. 

A shadow falls on him. He looks up and sees Jim descending, fumbling with his watch, fully dressed and ready to go. 

Fully dressed. _Shit._

Blair stops and stares. 

Jim looks at him, slowing his descent. 

"Hey," he says. 

"Hey." Blair cranes his neck, unobtrusively trying to figure out if that dark shadow under Jim's ear is a hickey. 

Jim pulls up his collar. 

_Damn_

"Simon called while you were dressing. I told him you were taking a personal day, but you'd call later." His voice is neutral and Blair nods, thinking, when the hell did you find time to shower? 

A flash, maybe a grin and Blair realizes he said that aloud. "While you were dressing, and before Simon called," Jim answers. His face untangles, almost, features relaxing. "I could take the day off," he says, not completing the sentence, painfully not trying to put any pressure on Blair. 

It almost succeeds. 

"No," Blair raises his hand nonchalantly, as if he can't practically _see_ the currents flowing between them, "no, man, you go ahead. I'll just hang around here and, and get my act together if you know what I mean." 

He has a sinking feeling that Jim knows exactly what he means, so makes shooing motions with his hands. "I'll be fine. Go. I'll call Simon." 

Jim doesn't wait too long before nodding and moving towards the door. "Eat something, Chief. And...and don't worry about dinner, okay? We'll, I mean, I can order in or something... just rest, okay." 

He fumbles for his keys, nearly overturning the contents of the basket before snagging the correct bunch. He stares at them for a while before managing to put them in his shirt pocket, then takes them out again, hooking them through his index finger as he looks over his shoulder and smiles sheepishly at Blair. 

Blair can't help it. He smiles back. 

Jim grins, a huge, beaming Ellison-baring of teeth, saying "I'll see you when I get back." 

_Shit_

Three seconds are too long. Blair averts his eyes after two. 

Jim clears his throat, and exhales. 

"I'll be here, Jim," Blair says without looking at him. 

The door opens. Shuts. 

Blair closes his eyes, trying to remember to breathe. 

* * *

Let's play nothing happened. Let's pretend it can go back to the way it used to, safe and controlled, the release of pain and the limits of love. 

Bullshit. 

Beneath the surface his gut clenches, remembering Jim under him, his body as beautiful and needy and yearning as Blair has always imagined it to be. Dreams become flesh...and that, that is just too disturbing to think about, so what Blair really needs, as he leans his head against the cool wall of the living room, is the strength to rear his head back and bring it down _hard_ , maybe cracking his skull open in the process so all of it can bleed out and he won't have to deal with the roiling in his brains because they'll be scrambled anyway. 

Whoa. Catharsis already. 

Blair smiles grimly, sucking the flesh of his left hand, preparing himself to the point of inflicting pain. He opens his mouth to bite, but even before he can, the memories hit, the fucking _pointlessness_ of doing this _now_ and maybe banging his head against the wall is a good idea because it'll feel so good when he stops. 

If he stops... 

_No one was going to get hurt_

Feelings hit, swamping, overwhelming; he clenches his hands and shudders, whimpers forced through his teeth, as finally, after four years of studying it, finally he understands over-sensitivity. 

See, this is why he hasn't wanted to feel. 

Smell, touch, taste, sound, sound, especially, sound, all the sounds, the sound of Jim's voice breathing his name and begging for more, touch, Jim's touch - and he has to force the rest of it back before he drowns. But he remembers in aching, vivid clarity the press of muscles against his dick, the contorting agony of Jim's beautiful face, the taste of his sweat and the smell of his need and knows for certain that this is it, that any self-control he might have ever had left the building the minute Jim said his name and asked him inside. 

_Grief_

Blair presses his hand to clenched teeth, feeling the coolness of enamel, avoiding the sore part; remembering another kiss on the same surface. Wonders if there is anything precious in the world that he hasn't held briefly before fucking it up completely. Dissertation, home, the love of a friend, _family_... nope, he runs through the checklist, no surprises here. 

Too many thoughts, all too sudden too soon and he can't dial it down, he can't breathe. He needs to walk. 

He needs to _leave_ except he promised and what will happen to Jim if he goes? 

_shit_

Blair starts walking, trying not to think. He makes it out the door, down the stairs and all the way to the ground floor before realizing he's left his wallet and keys upstairs. 

What the hell, he's only going for a little walk. He might even be back. Soon. 

Walking is a pleasure Blair will never take for granted. It's - it _used_ to be a matter of quiet pride to him that he could walk down Prospect and turn the corner to the Avenue without people recognizing him as anything other than Blair Sandburg, that nice detective who lives in the neighborhood and does his part to keep their worlds safe. Not so long ago he cut his hair, wore dark glasses and stopped shopping at the Iranian bakery because people either asked too many questions or didn't ask any. 

Blair keeps walking, letting rhythm and breath substitute for thought. 

Anonymity is his new stock in trade. It works. It's worth it. Safer this way, not to think, not to feel, worse yet, make others feel for him, because it's safer just to keep breathing and keep living, taking one day at a time. Detach with love, or better yet, detach love. Naomi would be proud of him, or something like that. 

Subconscious, thy name is bullshit. 

Blair keeps walking, veering south so he can cut across 45th and take the longer route home. 

_Chicken-shit_

His strides grow longer, quicker and heavier. 

He runs. 

* * *

VII 

Lunch tastes like ashes in Jim's mouth. Literally, not metaphorically; he can sense each burnt carboxyl group and water molecule straining to let go. 

He's given up wondering about limits to what he can sense. According to Blair there are only a few pertinent ones; he cannot and should not attempt molecular analyses since the corresponding electromagnetic spectrum could burn his retinas and mutate his cells. 

/"Big, ugly ulcers Jim. Think cancer; play safe - and what was that again about the differences between carboxyl and water? You can _taste_ the difference? What, is one bigger? You feel the extra atom? Oh man,"/ 

And for a second Blair had looked torn between scientific zeal and protectiveness. But Guide Blair won over Scientist Blair and he'd made Jim promise that except in case of emergencies he'd never go beyond microcosm without professional - read Blair - help. 

That was fourteen months ago, when Blair was still selecting chapters for his dissertation and worrying about whether Jim would come in, just for _corroboration_ , Jim, and its been that long since they were friends enough to trade housework for promises they both knew would be kept, regardless. 

It's not that Blair hasn't recently come up with new and improved variations on how Jim can use his senses, but they've all been case-related and for the duration only. No more, hey Jim, I have a barometer, whaddya say we go up to the mountains and check your pressure sensitivity gauge. C'mon man, it'll be fun, really and oh, by the way, Simon said we could use his cabin so I borrowed a seismometer and we can do a little earthquake measurement too. 

It's a shock to realize that Blair _used_ to have fun with Jim's senses and he's not certain when present turned to past tense. So he ignores lunch in favor of replaying the best of Blair 1996 to present, and that leads to his favorite memories, namely the taste of Blair and the way he smells, or the hitch in his voice when he says 'Jim' while making love. 

Making. Love. 

Lunch is not the only thing tasting funny in Jim's mouth. 

How should he describe it anyway? Jim and Blair have had sex. Fucked. Done the horizontal mambo. 

Made love? 

/"Is this what this is about, Jim? You think I'm being callous? You think I'm indifferent to the fact that the woman I used to fuck is dead?" 

"Callous wouldn't explain this."/ 

Wouldn't it? 

/"I think of you all the time. I thought of you when I kissed her. I thought of you kissing me. I pretended it was your hands in my hair and your tongue in my mouth and I never ever fucked her on top because then I couldn't pretend that you were fucking me."/ 

His cock still aches. Cotton is a bad idea and if they're ever going to repeat this morning's performance he will insist on satin sheets. Or silk. Or maybe just on lying on his back so he can see Blair's face as he drives into Jim, see and taste the hunger that still resonates in his own hands and makes his knees tremble. 

See Blair's face... 

/You've never done _anything_ like this before. You've never felt _anything_ like this. Understand?/ 

Jim looks down and folds his hands on the table. He has _got_ to get over shaking. 

* * *

"Jim? Are you ok?" Simon leans over his desk, brow furrowed. 

"Hundred percent, sir," blinking and wondering how exactly he made it back from the cafeteria. He has a vague recollection of walking, but was that him? 

"Uh-huh. You look," Simon gestures vaguely. "Peaky." 

"Peaky." Now there's a word. Peaky. 

Why are his hands shaking so much? 

Simon is saying something about MOs and Jim forces himself to pay attention. 

"...know this is hard for you, but I think you should go take a look. Jim? Are you listening to me?" 

"Simon?" 

His Captain looks uncertain. "You're not up to this, are you?" 

"No, I'm fine, I'm fine," resisting the urge to sit on his shaking hands, folding them instead. Then, "Did you say Maple East?" 

Simon nods. "We might be collaborating with Homicide on this one, looks like the MO doesn't exactly fit the standard profile. Are you up to it?" 

Jim nods. "Absolutely." 

* * *

Call it perverse curiosity, but at 3 pm Jim is nodding to the uniform on guard at 72 Maple East and replacing the yellow 'Police, do not cross' barrier behind him. 

The room is freezing. 

Jim shivers, restraining himself, trying not to get personal. But it's already too late; he's defined this and is here because this is Teresa's bedroom, the boudoir of the other person. The other, very _dead_ woman, he reminds himself, just in time to be hit by the sweet nauseating stench of quickly rotting flesh. 

_Jesus_

He wrinkles his nose, trying to ignore the persistence of blood and overtone of tissue that clings to every available surface, including the bed, which has been stripped of its sheets. Probably to cart the corpse, then mentally kicks himself for being insensitive. 

/She asked me to stay the night with her, but I didn't. I never do, Jim/ 

Blair hadn't stayed. He came home. He always came home, and Jim waited for him. 

Blair hadn't stayed. What if he had? 

Breathe, Jim. 

And he does, remembering he has a job to do, firming his control and looking about the room. 

A gunshot did this? But everywhere he looks is a thin film of humanity, thin scrapings of blood, tissue and splattered brains. Miscellaneous cells cover the wall as though flung there by an arbitrary hand, and everywhere the pervasive stench of carrion. No wonder Homicide is a little worried. 

Decomposing flesh... could it really stink this bad in less than 24 hours? Or is he just hypersensitive because of this particular case? 

Jim blinks, trying to control the onslaught, replacing the stench with traces of Blair smell still captured in his olfactory receptors, but it doesn't work since there is a faint but definite trace of eau de Sandburg in this room and it combines sickeningly with copper, steel, and sulfur. 

So he takes the other route of letting smell and sight overload so he can use the _other_ senses to time travel, Sentinel style. Eyes and nose and ears draw back, all conscious senses in stasis so the brain can lose focus and instinct take over. 

Jim breathes, careful and controlled, reminding himself that he didn't eat lunch so there's nothing to hurl, battling queasiness and an approaching headache as a blanket of sensory deprivation falls over the room. 

Success. Yea. 

Colors turn to monochrome and the room itself _withdraws_ , all inanimate objects retreating, losing focus as thin filaments and spider webs of differing intensity emerge, criss-crossing at hot spots. 

This is not exactly a Guide-approved protocol; in fact he's never tried this before. But when Blair made Jim promise never to go deeper than the limits of a normal microscope, he also rhapsodized about Jim being able to use his senses to detect changes in infrared. 

/... sort of time-lapse photography in reverse, Jim! Time travel, man, theoretically, and mind you this is only a hypothesis and I don't want you trying anything like this on your own, because like I said this sort of stuff is _dangerous_ , but since all living organisms have heat signatures, if you could tell differences in the temperature of air layers and co-relate it to elapsed time, which we've seen you can do under guided hypnosis, even if that was for an event you'd actually _participated_ in, I imagine you'd be able to -/ 

"Breathe, Sandburg," Jim says, not realizing it was aloud until the room begins reverting to normal, and colors reappear in his vision. 

Jim shakes his head, takes a couple of deep breaths and tries again. 

* * *

/... starbursts of silver, though color has no meaning here. Conglomeration, a crazy jumbled tangle of lines, bullets in glass, no an explosion, too much, too many, the shot, forget that, move further behind/ 

/too far, too cold, can't see, maybe they're moving and yes, now yes the shapes resolve into human and indescribably vague, zoom in/ 

/zoom in, lose clarity, but try, try anyway and it helps now to reach out with smell, anchor slightly, ignore the nausea to look at the man/ 

/familiar scent and unfamiliar, ignore the woman, don't look at her, don't think of the hands on her or the mouth/ 

/fuck this. Zoom out/ 

/no wait, what's this, just look, look at the man on the bed, look at him moving. Look at his head thrown back, his hand, his hand clenched and moving to block his mouth, his mouth that's whispering, saying one word, saying -/ 

/and _there_ in the corner a flicker of movement, a motion, almost indecipherable, replay, replay even as the flickering ley lines flutter and die, their miniscule lives ending the game before/ 

He zooms forward. 

/ _star-burst_ / 

/ _FUCK_ / 

* * *

[Concluded in part two](mirrorbalance_a.html).

Text version of part two: http://www.squidge.org/archive/cgi-bin/convert.cgi?filename=1_2000_firsts/mirrorbalance_a.html 


	2. Chapter 2

This story has been split into two parts for faster loading.

## Mirror-Balance

by [Spyke](mailto:spyke_raven@yahoo.com)  


Author's webpage: <http://www.geocities.com/spyke_raven>

* * *

Mirror-Balance -- Part Two 

"Detective?" 

"Detective Ellison?" 

"Detective!" 

Stabbing pain in his forearm and Jim jerks awake. 

"Detective?" 

The officer who just jabbed him with her nightstick does not look happy. Jim winces, rubbing his bicep and running through explanations in his head. None of which seem exactly what he's looking for, so he just mouths 'Migraine' and gets the hell out of there, surreptitiously rubbing his hands to warm them because he's suddenly so damn cold. 

Shivering. He's shivering because it's cold. It's so fucking _cold_ , like something in the room leaching energy away from him. And considering what he just saw... Jim sticks his palms under his armpits to warm them, running to the truck so he can turn the heater on. 

/She was fine when I left/ 

Jesus, Blair, oh Jesus... 

The heater sends a hot blast of air straight to his face and for a minute he enjoys the sensation of burning, cleansing, driving away all sensation but the sheer, blessed purity of heat. Bath, he promises himself. He'll just drive straight home to the loft and a long hot shower with lots of soap. Antiseptic. 

He'll build a fire. He'll scrub his skin raw. He'll burn sage for Christ's sake to erase the image of the hybrid figure struggling in the corner, the growling panther superimposed over the bleeding wolf, both howling soundlessly as Blair thrusts in time to the beating of wings. 

And then... and then... 

A gun was fired. But what came after - 

_Jesus_. Oh sweet _Jesus_

_Fuck_ , he has got to stop _shaking_. 

* * *

/"You know, Jim, this concept of balance... yin, yang; intriguingly, even most monotheistic cultures adopt at least an expression of duality, if not higher divisions of their one, in order to achieve a sense of balance and harmony."/ 

Jim grips the steering wheel, remembering. 

/"No, hear me out here, this is important. In the Hindu pantheon, the three major gods are the Creator, the Destroyer and the eternal Preserver who watches. See? Balance, everywhere we look. The Chinese balance their concept of Yin and Yang, male and female vital preservative forces. In fact, let's extrapolate and talk about the need to balance life and death in the form of crucifixion and resurrection, or Newton's third law of action and reaction."/ 

Balance, balance - hey! 

He hangs a sharp right, missing an SUV by inches. 

_Idiots_

He has to stay focused. 

/"If you're making a case for my divinity here, Chief, I accept." 

"No, no, you just think you're God, but we're all one in the universal mind anyway. So - hey, are you going to eat that? Thank you. No, the point I'm making here is that in accordance with the laws of universal harmony, we are a partnership. A team. Equally balanced. So - " 

"Blair, I'm not going to ask Simon if you can draw a paycheck." 

"Damn. Well, it was worth a shot." 

"He suggested it himself." 

"Jim. JIM! Oh man, this is great, this is fantastic! So what, do I get to join your secret Masonic brother hood of uniforms too? Is there a handshake?"/ 

No, but he hadn't been able to avoid the hug. 

Jim closes his eyes for a second, hoping to clear his vision. But it's all too clear. 

/Chief, I don't know if I'm ready to take this trip with you/ 

Pray its not too late now. 

Try not to drown. 

* * *

VII 

7.30 pm. 

Blair enters the loft, absently noting that the door is open and the room is dark. Jim mustn't be home yet. 

Which gives him time to shower. He needs to shower. 

He strips in his room, carefully placing clothes in a corner and reminding himself he should do laundry, change his sheets, that romance or not after a certain time funky is just that, a funky smell and not erotic anymore. 

Still... it can wait. 

He's standing in the shower, left hand braced against the wall and away from the jets of water when he hears the bathroom door open. 

Jim. 

Blair leans against the wall, calming his heart rate, trying to breathe as he hears the sound of a zipper being pulled down, fabric moving against skin, sees through half-closed eyes the sight of Jim Ellison's body tantalizingly revealed in slow, careful stages. 

_Jim_

Blair turns his head to the wall, conscious of his posture, his back to the man entering the shower with him, feeling the density of air and the thickening of his blood as Jim approaches. 

He swallows. 

Jim leans into Blair, breath moist on his shoulder, hardening cock lightly bumping the cleft in his ass. 

Blair breathes, and sobs, shivering as Jim kisses his shoulder, sucking the flesh into his mouth; trembling hands moving up to brace them against the wall. 

"Don't, Jim," he begs, but the man is already sliding his palms over Blair's. 

Quick intake of breath as Jim encounters the heated throb of wounded flesh. 

Blair's breath hitches. 

"Jim, don't." 

Jim clasps his other hand and leans the empty palm against the tiles. "I'm cold, Blair," his flesh chilled despite the heat of the water. 

"Jim, we can't." 

"Turn around." Swaying forward, rubbing his cock along Blair's ass and it takes all his self-control for Blair to say, "Jim. No. Don't do this." 

Jim nuzzles his neck, softly whispering, "I've got you, I'll catch you. Turn around, Blair." 

"I said no. What part of 'no' don't you understand, Jim?" 

"Touch me, Blair. I'm cold." Using their conjoined right hands to keep Blair against the wall, Jim moves his other hand south to cup and caress Blair's awakening erection. "I'm so cold." 

"Jim," Blair has to maintain control. "Stop that, Jim. I mean it." 

"You afraid of me?" Jim asks, leaving his cock alone in favor lightly massaging circles over Blair's hip. "Then turn around and take over. I trust you." 

Breathing is important; breathing keeps them both safe. So does this \- and Blair brings his hand down to his mouth, but Jim catches the wrist between two fingers, holding it, keeping him fast, gently but quickly turning Blair around so he can nuzzle and pass kisses all over Blair's cheeks, his lips, his face. 

"Jim," 

"You don't have to," kissing Blair's forehead so gently and so _needy_ , "Let go, Blair, it's all right, I've got you, you don't have to," and the slide of Jim's wet cock against his stomach is more erotic than the words or even the understanding they imply, so Blair moves, promising himself just one, just one thrust and with the one of course, the battle is lost, because Jim Ellison groans. 

Groans and captures his mouth, tongue invading, dying, breaching, peppering lips, cheeks, chin and eyes with tiny kisses before dipping down again for a long, deep agonizing taste, then back up again as though once was too much, back to feathering eyelashes and holding Blair, hands on shoulders, positioning them for strokes against strokes, warmth and water cascading against skin and that's it, that's when Blair loses it, thrusting hard, harder, hard again, and again, trying to free his hand from Jim's so he can break skin, so he can retain control, but there's Jim holding on to him, whispering "Let go, I've got you, let go, let go," and Blair wants to believe him, believes enough for a moment to actually cry, one long intense sound as he comes, comes against Jim's stomach, water washing away the slickness even as forms. But what makes him forget the infected throbbing of his hand is that his orgasm makes _Jim_ 's knees weak, and they buckle and because now he _knows_ it's too late to protect Jim except in this way, he thrusts him against the wall, desperately hoping they won't slip, crooning and leaning into Jim's ear, whispering "I love you, I love you, Jesus, I love you so much" again and again till Jim whimpers and begs with an upward crook of his chin for a kiss and another, and they kiss, Blair rubbing against Jim, telling him "I'll catch you, you can fall," and even as Jim groans in agreement, his right hand holds Blair's infected left high against the wall, out of reach of the water, protecting him. 

They fall, awkwardly, each trying to cushion the other with hands and body, ending in a tangled, slippery heap on the wet tiles, touching foreheads as the water washes them clean. And Jim brings Blair's hand to his lips, touching and pressing himself on each part of skin, carefully not putting too much pressure on the inflamed welt, but kissing lightly there anyway. 

They've stopped shivering. 

After a while the water turns cold. 

* * *

Jim breathes, inhaling the scent of Blair, Blair wet and open to him, Blair sated and boneless, Blair on his lap, cock against cock, head on his shoulder, breathing deep. 

He reaches up and switches the water off, waits for the trickle to stall completely before taking Blair's hand and kissing the palm, kissing like he can't believe this, how he could be so lucky, scenting at the same time the beat of fevered cells beneath the skin, the pulse of chemicals signaling infection, wondering how long he would have gone without noticing that his best friend was fading, slowly leaching away from him. 

"Up," but he has to wait a moment and check he has the strength to rise, which he does now, so he pulls Blair to his feet, thinking towels, thinking anti-bacterial cream, thinking only that he can do what he's good at which isn't very much but it's all he has to give now and he's got to keep doing what he can. 

"Jim," Blair says, and he looks down into nakedness, eyes shining and soul-deep open, feels a hand cupped around his chin, entropy of molecules that he could fall into, watches entranced as his friend parts his lips to speak. 

"Jim," Blair says again, then looking vaguely surprised and slightly stupid, leans over to the sink where he is quickly and violently sick. 

* * *

Someone rubs his back, carefully soothing circles and allowing his aching muscles some relief as he keeps heaving cathartically, bringing up stale air and sour liquid. Blair retches thankfully, vaguely amazed at how good it feels to finally be able to let go and upchuck his guts. He spares a flash of humor for his own bad timing before collapsing into waiting arms that hold and drag him away from the sickness, blanketing him in a robe and hauling him to his room. 

He myopically registers Jim's robe, Jim's towel, Jim's hands patting him down dry so he can collapse on his still-funky bed, eyes blurry and head swimming while Jim covers him with a blanket and then, oh blissful then, fingers run through his hair, petting and stroking in calm, generous motions. 

Blair closes his eyes and tries to relax, to calm his breathing, but he stinks and it sucks and if he closes his eyes even for a second, he can hear the beat of raven wings counterpoint to the sound of a whimpering wolf. 

"Whoa, easy buddy," and Jim's hands are on his forehead, lightly stroking against the distended veins. "Dial down," he says, faint tremor in his voice. "Rest easy." 

Blair groans, meaning shut up and Jim does, cupping his face between large and capable hands and leaning down so their foreheads touch. 

"I stink," Blair whispers finally. 

"I love you," Jim says, like it's an answer, which of course it is and Blair feels his heart hiccup. Jim must have felt it too, because he presses Blair's uninjured hand and tells him, "I want to clean and dress your hand, Chief, but I need to put on some clothes. I have to get up." 

"I like you naked," Blair rasps, but lets him go because he's coming right back isn't he, and that's right, Jim does come back and takes his aching palm, soothing it with a kiss before applying the cream. 

Blair winces and feels Jim's touch lighten even further, which he would have thought was humanly impossible. 

"When the hell did this happen?" Jim asks, and Blair figures that the answer isn't 'this morning' because it's a completely different question being asked here, but he's too tired and it's too complicated to go into that now and his head hurts, so he just says, 

"She deserved better than me, Jim. Fuck, I had problems remembering her _name_." 

Jim doesn't reply, so Blair realizes he's done something stupid again, and chuckles weakly. 

"Ssh." Jim leans forward, putting the tube away on the nightstand, sounding so damn calm that Blair gets annoyed for a second and says "Are you even listening to me, Jim?" 

"I hear you, Chief," smoothing gauze onto the bite and if that is not displacement activity on par with his own, Blair doesn't know what is. "It's going to be all right." 

"Yeah. Yeah, sure. Shit, that hurts," but letting Jim take his hand and wrap it up safe because it's been so long and he's tired. 

"Better?" Jim asks, and Blair swallows, "Yeah. Just give me a second," trying to breathe and calm himself, but realizing there's no point obfuscating when there's something he really needs, so instead he tells Jim, "I think you should hold me, Jim. No, I really think you should hold me. Now." And he closes his eyes as Jim clambers onto the bed, lying side by side with him, faces, hips and groins aligned so they can lean into each other and draw strength. 

Literally, not metaphorical, because after a while Blair stops shivering. 

Jim squeezes his shoulder, inhaling in time with his breath and for a moment Blair feels its oddly erotic that they're sharing breath, passing the same molecules between them and he'd inhale Jim anytime and he wonders what Jim thinks about hyperactive olfactory glands. 

"No one was supposed to get hurt," he tells Jim, wanting him to understand. 

Another squeeze and Blair nods, rubbing his forehead against Jim's, feeling his friend relax and hold him closer. 

"Tell me," Jim says. 

Blair closes his eyes and tries. 

* * *

Somewhere around the time Blair realized Jim loved him and that he'd screwed up forever by writing a dissertation that could never be validated without destroying them both, he started dreaming the birds. 

He doesn't tell Jim about the moment when Megan's blood stained his hands and he quite literally saw red; red rivulets ripping and tearing what he supposes is the fabric of space-time, each new tear pulsing in time to the flight of approaching scavengers. He doesn't tell Jim because there aren't actually any words to express the moment when he knew it could have been his best friend's blood on his hands, this could have been _Jim_ lying there, easy target and all, and there aren't colors and synonyms to elaborate the sick self-hatred and dread that accompanies such a revelation. What he does say, because Jim deserves this much honesty, is that he finally realized he loved Jim less than 48 hours after Jim figured out he was selfish enough to flush his friend down the toilet for a chance at a grand prize and even now he's not able to think of that week without wanting to bite down really, really hard on the hand that's covered in gauze and Jim-clasp. 

"Is this okay?" Jim asks, as if he hasn't already had Blair come inside and all over him, but the truth is, this is more than okay, this is intimate, Jim's hand in his, two fingers loosely encircling his wrist. 

He focuses on those fingers for strength, telling Jim very simply that when the dreams started, he knew he was, they were in really, really deep humus, but maybe there was an out, because the panther appeared to him, "... just once and growled at me, like 'you know what to do, so do it already,' and well, when totem spirits speak, the earth dances, right?" and he continues without waiting for Jim's assent or dissent, because that is part of the story he isn't at all proud of and would like to skip over. "And as if two hundred pounds of snarling panther wasn't enough, I began having these dreams every night or so, like a bad Martian set up, red sand, red sky full of these huge grotesque bird shapes and you know what really intrigues me, Jim, is that the first time I saw them, I thought, ravens. Ravens. Does that mean anything to you?" 

Jim shakes his head, no, forehead rubbing interestingly against Blair's. "But I get the feeling you'll tell me, right?" 

"Right. I mean, think about it, Jim, you see a big black bird, what's your first reaction? Crow, right? Crow. Raven is not a term your subconscious normally appropriates, unless you've already assigned some sort of significance to it, which I hadn't, so at first I thought, you know, these are harbingers of doom, bad karmic points, so better not lose anymore time here." 

Jim muffles something against Blair's neck, which could have been a laugh or a sigh, so Blair asks him to repeat that. 

"When did you start with the hand?" 

Blair raises their linked hands thoughtfully. "I don't really know. It was displacement activity at first, actually, a way to release, you know, like certain cultures, for example the Hopi Indians have a system of ritual cuts to indicate mourning, where the length and possibly the amount of tissue likely to scar as a result is indicative of the depth of loss, but yes, I know I'm digressing Jim, so you can stop squeezing me now. Jim. JIM! Thank you, I needed my ribs back," he grins, knowing Jim can see him in the dark and being Jim, also caught the sheen of tears in his voice. 

Jim continues to carefully hold Blair's hand while Blair tells him that the dreams stopped for a couple of days after the second press conference where he invalidated his life and reputation with a few well-chosen words, squeezing unintentionally when Blair goes on to speak of the academy, of being accosted by perfect strangers during the day and nightmares at night, of understanding with an awful sick feeling that there was nothing he could do, no form of damage control that could stem the tide of those who'd scented blood on the wind, only some of whom were hoping for a ten-minute spot on National Television. 

"So you cut your hair," Jim says very softly, and Blair returns the pressure on his hand, speaking lightly of symbolism and ritual penance and having to find some way of keeping the scavengers off their tracks in both realms. And this is where he pauses, finding it foolish to say the words 'both realms', except Jim says it first, reminds him that that is his legitimate title, Shaman of the Great City and like Incacha, he walks between worlds and sees what others don't. 

"Kind of like you," Blair says, stroking Jim's hair, "You know, I used to wonder about that. How come if you're the Sentinel and I'm the Shaman I didn't actually get the dreams and the spirit animal until, you know," and he pauses because this is the bit where Jim hurts, but it's stupid to stop now so he continues. "Anyway, let me tell you, Jim, that I'll take no dreams over spirit walks any day, because do you know how hard it is to interpret something that has little or no cultural significance to you? Naomi raised me to be a citizen of the world which is all lovely and beautiful, but a crow in India means the souls of your dead ancestors are visiting and in Ireland means watch out because it's the Morrigan, and of course there are different rituals appropriate to the season and let me tell you man, it was hard figuring it all out considering that I'm actually Jewish by default." 

Jim sighs, tracing fingers up and down Blair's arm. 

"Go on," and Blair inhales sharply. 

"Can't really think when you do that man, but don't stop, it feels nice. Yeah. Yeah, like that," and for a second he just enjoys the feel of Jim coasting up and down his body, touching and trailing little lines of silver. 

Jim pats him gruffly. "You're stalling, Sandburg." 

"I am, am I not?" 

... 

"Blair," Jim says into the silence. 

Blair rubs at his eyes, willing Jim to give him a second, a minute to pull himself together. "Shut up a second, okay?" he manages, letting part of what he's been holding in bleed out without the accompanying guilt-releasing trip of physical pain, because this is the part he will never be able to forgive himself for, the fact that the dreams came and because all he could think of was protecting Jim a, a civilian got caught in the line of fire. 

"It's like, like there was this blanket around my mind, Jim," he manages, "This time when I couldn't feel, couldn't think beyond the surface, because the safest thing was to sort of decoy, um, like, go _underground_ , if you get what I mean, dialing down so we couldn't be found." 

"Survival strategy." 

"Yeah. Yeah, exactly like that. Jim," Blair says with sudden desperation, "I had to, you understand? They could have _found_ you." 

... 

"Jim?" 

"Tell me about the hand." 

Blair swallows. 

"The hand." 

"I'm not asking about the fucking women, Sandburg, just tell me about the hand." 

"Fuck YOU, alright?!!" He rolls over, "Fuck this shit, I don't _need_ this right now." 

Jim pulls him back and leans on him, over him, pinning him to the mattress. Blair pushes back. 

"Fuck you!" 

"You did," and the voice is so deadly calm Blair actually quiets for all of one second. 

"Yeah," he spits out, "Yeah, I fucked you, you have a problem with that? Your little macho Ellison attitude being taken down?" 

Jim _breathes_ at him, breathes into his face. 

Blair waits. 

And waits. 

And waits. 

And realizes that somehow with the exchange of air between them he's fucking calming down. 

Ah, _shit._

He closes his eyes and huffs into Jim's face, not for any particular reason, just, you know, a huff. A sigh. Because. 

There is a man on top of him, breathing into his life. 

"The hand is a safety valve," Jim says for him and Blair nods. 

"Make that a loaded trigger. I didn't fucking _know_ okay Jim? Figured as long as I didn't touch _you_ , no one was going to get hurt," except someone did and he should have known it from the moment Megan's blood stained his palms and he found that consequences echoed between worlds. 

On cue, his hand throbs, and then Blair forgets to breathe because Jim reaches over to stop Blair's mouth with his own, not exactly a kiss, more a press of lips against lips, so he can swallow Blair's words, maybe inhale them, ignoring the reek of bile and approaching nausea, the occasional salty tear that drips off Blair's nose, concentrating only on pressing skin to skin so they can share, telling Blair to take something of what he's been giving Jim for so long. 

Blair doesn't relax entirely, but his throat muscles loosen, because he's certainly not going to attempt to form any more words for a while. Jim understands and shifts the kiss slightly, resting his mouth against Blair's cheek. 

"Jesus," Blair blurts out finally, "Jesus, if they ever marketed this kind of therapy," and he looks up at Jim, grimly smiling at the logical conclusion to this statement, "I'd kill every one of the fuckers who benefited, Ellison, you hear me?" 

"I hear you," Jim touches his lips carefully; still careful with caresses like he can't believe Blair isn't going to pull back. "Tell me more." 

Blair shrugs. "Nothing to tell." 

Jim moves off him slightly, sitting up on one elbow. "So how're we going to deal with these... these birds?" 

"Jim, man, what makes you think I've got all the answers?" 

"Because you normally do, and who's the Shaman here anyway?" 

"If I'd known it would be this much trouble, I swear..." Blair stops. "Jim, you know I don't mean that. I would never mean that. You're the best thing that ever happened to me, I swear to heaven and all the pantheon." 

"Ssh," placing a finger on Blair's lips. "It's okay. Somewhere between me letting an ape trash the apartment and you channeling the strength of your spirit animal into mine, I figured we weren't going to be letting out your room anytime soon." 

"Why, Jim Ellison, you big ball of mush." 

"What?" 

"You said 'we'." Blair grins and Jim groans, cuffing his head lightly. 

They lean into each other, automatically holding, hands occasionally coming up to ruffle hair or smooth eyelashes, touching and affirming here and now. 

Presently Blair's eyelids droop and he starts awake, shocking Jim. 

"Whoa!" 

"Sorry, sorry," but Blair's teeth are chattering. Jim sets his, and grips Blair's wrists, the uninjured palm, running hands up and down his friend, willing strength and warmth into him. 

"I can't sleep, man, I'm sorry, I can't." 

Jim nods, gripping tighter. 

"I think you should just keep holding me." 

* * *

IX 

11 pm and Jim has lost count of how many times Blair has jerked awake in his arms. 

"Sandburg, this is ridiculous," he growls finally, helpless and irritated, switching on the night lamp. "Can't you come up with an idea?" 

Blair's eyes glitter back at him, tone as brittle as glass. 

"Well see, Jim, my first carefully thought out plan to spare you backfired _badly_ , and plan B, which was to fuck you senseless didn't work either, so you know what, Jim, I think I'm all out of plans." He spreads his hands. "Your turn." 

"Christ." 

"Shit," Blair agrees, rolling over onto his side and chafing Jim's cheeks between his hands. "I'm sorry, okay, I'm a shit, I'm an ass, I'm sleepy, I'm irritated as hell and pissing-in-my-pants afraid and I'm taking it out on you." 

"Burn sage," Jim mumbles and Blair laughs. 

"Oh if only." 

"You mean it, don't you," Jim asks him. "No, seriously. You meant what you just said about plan B." 

Blair groans. "Oh God, no, we're not getting into this." 

"No, no, I think I actually have an idea, Blair. But you're going to have to trust me." 

Blair leans his forehead against Jim's. "Don't I always?" 

Jim closes his eyes, inhaling - breath of breath, life of life, thinking of how different air tastes when it's been through the Sandburg zone, slightly zestier, more alive and if he's not careful he'll be writing poems to transubstantiation via Blair. 

"Get this off," he mutters, moving his hands between them, opening Blair's robe so he can feel the skin. 

"Whoa!" Blair sounds surprised but not entirely displeased. "What are we doing here?" 

"We - help me, Sandburg," wriggling out of his T-shirt and helping Blair help him shuck his boxers, "We are getting naked here." 

"Uh Jim, while I don't want to dampen your enthusiasm or anything - oh, man!" and Blair sucks in his breath at the sight of Jim's cock millimeters from his nose, "Oh man, Jim, you smell so good, here, let me help you," 

"Breathe, Sandburg," Jim bats away his Guide and pulls him up to rest face to face. "This is the plan." 

"It's a very good plan," Blair vows. "I'm relaxed already." 

Jim snorts and burrows his face into Blair's neck. "Will you listen to me?" 

"There are words?" But Blair stops tickling Jim's stomach and returns to what Jim has decided will be his favorite Blair-caress ever, hands cupping and stroking his face. 

"The plan," gasping for control as he opens himself layer by layer to all the stimuli hitting him, scent, taste, sound, touch and _other_ , "The plan is for us to sleep together. That had better not be a laugh." 

"It wasn't," Blair assures him, "I hiccupped. So sleeping together is going to overcome spiritual animations that are attracted by violent energy. Actually," he pets Jim comfortingly, "its quite a good idea. Make love not war... except you're forgetting something, Jim. I tried that already." 

Jim shakes his head wryly. "Not exactly," then trails off, trying to find the right words. 

"I'm listening, go on, Jim," Blair prods gently. 

Jim holds Blair's gauze-wrapped hand in his own large paw, tracing the outer knuckles until Blair gives a little sigh. 

"Simon suggested I take a look around Maple East today." 

Sharp intake of breath but Jim holds fast. "I had to go, Chief. I wanted to see." 

Blair lets his hand rest between Jim's. 

"What did you see?" he asks after a while. 

Jim inhales gratefully, surreptitiously checking for the heavier scents that suggest agitation, but Blair seems calm, though not overly so. 

"I ... I did the time-lapse thing, and I saw... I saw the panther." 

Silence. 

"Chief?" Jim ventures. 

"Go on." 

"You remember when we... the animals, when they merged." 

"Not likely to forget that, no." 

"I saw them again, but they were separate, and your wolf was bleeding, changing back and forth from the panther, like it was... I don't know, feeding or something." 

Blair places a finger on Jim's mouth. "Thank you Jim. I know." 

"You knew?" 

"Why the hell do you think I tried not to touch you?" He lets his hand caress Jim's cheek, mimicking tremors. "Been feeling cold recently?" 

"You warm me," Jim answers simply, and Blair groans, flesh hardening in response. 

"Ah, shit, Jim, I'm sorry," apologizing to lax genitals and promising to pay better attention to the task at hand. 

"It's fine, you're... you're _fine_ ," Jim whispers the last, shifting slightly, letting smooth against hard. "Let me warm you." 

"Jim. Jim, no, wait man, Jim, please, let's process this." Blair grunts, trying to focus. "You're saying - what are you saying?" 

"Let's sleep together, Blair. How about we just sleep together, and see what dreams come?" 

* * *

Bliss is Jim Ellison personified, or should that be the other way around? Blair's not sure. 

"You warm me," Jim answered him simply, the words effortless and powerful, just like the man himself, so all Blair can come up with for an answer is a mental 'yin and yang, Ellison, yin and yang,' which means in Blair-speak, I love you because you loved me too. Though how Jim can still do that is beyond him, but damn it, he should never look gifts in the mouth, they tend to leave on him. 

Sleep together, and he likes the thought of that, naked and asleep together doesn't seem as vulnerable as naked and asleep alone. Besides which Jim is against him, so soft and warm and Blair can feel himself relaxing, open and ready for whatever dreams he thinks may come. 

Besides which, the plan is theoretically sound. 

"At this rate you'll put me out of the Shaman business," he teases and is surprised when Jim rolls them over, pressing him into the mattress with a brutal touch of lips that leaves him panting and eager for more. 

"Jim," he reaches out but Jim bats him away, saying, "This is for me," and Blair leans back, shuddering as Jim inhales him, or so it seems, starting from the neck and working straight down. 

"What're you doing, man?" and he feels a chuckle reverberate through the chest on his, and words that sound suspiciously like "Relaxing you," which is a very good idea, given as how he's twanging like a bowstring or something, primed and ready for a single touch. 

The touch comes, and he arches, because it's not where he expects it, not Jim's mouth, not his goddamn _mouth_ on his dick, taking only the first inch or so in for a taste but the surprise is enough to make Blair bellow, because is there anything this man won't do for him? Anything he won't give? And the answer is no, as Jim apparently not wanting to choke himself decides to work on little sucks and long, slow licks traveling from crown to head and even a daring wet trace around his balls. 

"JIM! This, this..." this is a bad idea, he wants to say, because reciprocity has always been his thing, and its been so long since he's had someone in his bed whom _he_ wants to taste and explore, and he wants to know what Jim likes, if he'll have to whisper 'dial up' or 'filter out' when he gives Jim Ellison a tongue bath, but apparently this exploration is not to be tonight, because Jim is snuffling the curls at the base of his groin and the warmth and the love and the inexpert affection are combining to tense him and he really, really doesn't want to overload Jim's senses. "Aw, Jim, Jim man," and his hands are beginning to fist in hair that's too short for any purchase, and the slip-slide of silky fuzz against his skin is even more erotic than the novel caresses being lavished on his dick. But, not to worry, he's never been one of the men who comes with blowjobs and he probably wouldn't have this time either except he can feel Jim kissing him, feel Jim's hand hold his and the simple closeness of that gesture combined with Jim whispering, "...taste you," is a _lethal_ combination. 

He remembers to yell in time, jerking the man's head back, but guess who's stronger and as Blair comes, jerking and spasming, he's already plotting his revenge, which will be _terrible_ , the minute he gets his breath back. 

Which would be now, and as Jim smirks, looking up at him, Blair wipes the expression from his face and luxuriates in the swift inhalation that comes when he says, "That was great, oh man, that was great, but I think you should fuck me now." 

Contact. 

Without warning, Ellison bestrides him, braced on his elbows, face like the wrath of a thunder-god, their mouths nearly touching as he growls, "Don't." 

Don't? 

"Don't?" he repeats inanely as Jim ruthlessly kisses him into the ground. "Don't?" he tries again and this time the man actually offers him an answer. 

"Let me." 

"Let me?" this is ridiculous; he's lost brainpower. Let me, oh wait, he gets it, no actually he doesn't, so he wrinkles his brow and asks reasonably, "Jim, what the hell do you mean?" 

And Jim's jaw is working as he holds himself in check, finally grinding out the words, "For once in your miserable life, Sandburg, can you let me do something for you without feeling you have to reciprocate?" 

Reciprocate? 

Oh. 

"Ah, Jim," and the feel of that square jaw in his hands is overwhelming, sensation he can overdose on, and this entire reciprocity thing is a kettle of fish that he's too tired to deal with now, but one thing Jim has to know is that this isn't about balance - 

Or is it? 

Kettles of fish. 

Oh hell. 

"You know, you're going to put me out of the Shaman business," he says, when the initial shock has worn off. Jim snuggles into the crook of his neck and Blair can feel his face contouring, lips shaping grin and words. 

"Nah, I'll patrol the physical, you guard the spiritual boundaries and we'll both watch each other's backs. How's that sound, partner?" 

Marvelous, he _likes_ that. Simple, elegant solution and so apt, he really likes that, guardian of the spiritual boundaries; it has a certain ring to it. And this is called synergy, true reciprocity, yin and yang, Sentinel and Guide, and he says as much to yawning Jim, who reaches up to pat his head before snuggling further into the junction of his shoulder and neck. 

"Shut up and sleep," he mutters, already halfway there, but Blair stays awake, watching and feeling the newness of this, of Jim vulnerable and so easily asleep in his arms, protector and protected in one. 

He could get used to this, definitely used to this. 

Jim is warm and _heavy_ against him, so he rolls slightly, pushing with the unhurt palm and whoa, who knew Jim Ellison would be so responsive, because he turns over immediately, rolling onto his back and pulling Blair into the shelter of him, rubbing strong and comforting lines up and down Blair's back. Which is great and relaxing and what the hell, the fates combine, so with a roll of eyes and a promise to have something to say to the irony gods, because he knows the Ketchua tribe actually have a few he could probably contact, Blair lets his eyes close. 

A last peek at the clock on his table reveals the time to be 12 mid-night, the witching hour, which he hopes it isn't an omen, but even if it is, hey wasn't there a movie about omens and dark satanic birds and right now if he can hold on to that idea it might actually be of some use to them... 

Blair dreams. 

* * *

/of mist and sand and the swirling between worlds, of the sky that never changes and the air that doesn't breathe, of a place beyond definition and the boundaries between worlds/ 

"Jesus, Chief, you come here every night?" 

Blair opens his eyes and looks around at the red sprinkled sky and the sticky mud he's mired in. Swirling mists, cloudless sky and vision that waters if he focuses on anything including the steady upbeat of a giant pulse throbbing in the heart of this world. 

"I think so," he says slowly, "but what do you see?" 

Dream-Jim wrinkles his nose. "For one thing, this place stinks. Let's get out of here." 

"I'd love to, man, but," he points to his feet, "as you can see I'm going to need some help." 

"Ah, Blair," Jim sighs and reaches out a hand. 

Blair takes it. 

The connection is real, more real than in the physical realm, silver sparks shooting up their arms. Blair reels back, but Jim reaches out and grabs him, anchoring him solidly. 

"Got you," he says in satisfaction, and between him hauling and Blair pushing, they manage to get him partway out of the muck. 

"Jim," he pants, "I really need a rest here." 

"No time, partner," Jim looks skywards. "Company." 

The largest of the carrion birds dives down and Blair ducks to avoid it. Jim isn't so lucky and gets part of his face torn away, leaving him bleeding and dripping, the half-wholeness of his eyes staring stupidly at his bloody palm. 

"Blair," he says, vaguely surprised at the gurgling in his throat, "Blair," as he raises a shaking hand to what is left of his face, repeating the name again and again like a talisman against evil, saying Blair, Blair, Blair 

/stay with me tonight/ 

_Jesus_. Oh fucking _Jesus_ \- Jim in front of him bleeding and real and Blair needs to remind himself this is a dream, a _dream_ damn it, like all the dreams except it was never supposed to be Jim bleeding, not Jim hurting, no one was supposed to hurt, oh FUCK, fuck, fuck, he's shaking with the effort of reining himself in, of refusing to bite and release blood in penance. Not here, not in the place between worlds, not here in front of Jim or what's left of this dream, because... and the shaking is so strong as he feels a wet, slick palm touch his face in a parody of comfort he can't take, he 

Screams. And screams and screams and screams again until he feels arms around him, shaking him, and a familiar voice saying over and over again "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, come back." 

Blair wakes. 

* * *

Jim's hands are gripping his shoulders again, their foreheads touching as he repeats, "Breathe." 

Blair breathes, inhaling a cocktail of scent, his own sweat and fear, Jim's warmth and nearness and his hands are shaking until Jim curses and begins rubbing them between his. 

"Shit, I'm sorry Blair," self-loathing in every note of his voice and movement of his fingers, "I'm sorry, I just...fuck, I'm _sorry_. I just thought, God, I'm so sorry. It was a stupid idea." 

Blair only half-listens, his mind whirling. 

"Blair? Chief? Blair?" 

He lifts a finger and touches Jim's lips. Alive and real - did he really see them torn away? But he's alive now and they're holding hands. 

"Blair." 

Touch, touch hands, encircle wrists, lift Jim's palm to his own so he can taste it, taste salt and realize there's no blood, no nothing except gouges in the palm that remind Blair of when he used to clench his fists so hard the nails broke off in the skin. Ah Jim, no, no, not Jim's hands... 

... Which remind Blair as he lifts them for inspection, of anti-bacterial cream, and kisses on the palm, mugs of coffee and sachets of tea, the little touches of everyday existence that Jim uses to show his affection. 

"Blair? You're scaring me here, buddy." 

Blair shakes his head, feeling thoughts click into place. It feels so good he does it again, not sure how stupid he looks shaking his head from side to side, but the dizziness feels so good he could throw up. "No, no, no. No, no, don't be scared, don't be scared, I have faced my fear and will overcome it." Misquote 'Dune', yeah, that's one way to deal, but man, who'd have _thunk_ of the entropy of their combined hands, so Blair moans angrily, shaking his head, "Oh man, how could I be so _fucking_ _stupid_!" 

"Blair?" 

He stops nodding with an effort, reaches up and tucks a lock of hair behind Jim's ears, the contact serving to ground him and reminding him he's not the only one here with a problem. "Dial down, Jim. Tell me what you saw." 

Jim blinks. "I saw... you... and ...you were bleeding. And I couldn't stop it, and then you started screaming when I touched you, so I -" 

Blair laughs. He actually throws his head back and laughs in hysterical triumph, feeling his lungs collapse with every breath, feeling the lack of air for what he has to express, punching his injured hand upwards and _howling_ at them, fuck the lot, ignoring the stab of pain. 

"Blair!" Jim's voice is a sliver of sanity and he looks at him, shivering as his wrists are loosely encircled in the Ellison hand-cuffs. "Stop that!" 

"No!" he yells, then realizes what that sounds like, so laughs in Jim's face which only makes matters worse, but that doesn't matter, because Blair is on a _high_ that he's not coming down from, no sir, not now that he _knows_. 

Jim slaps him smartly. He doesn't see it coming. 

When the world reorients, he's leaning into Jim, breathing scent and affirming life, registering the palms softly massaging his shoulders and the sound of Jim breathing, breathing in reciprocity. 

_Balance_ , oh man, oh _man_! 

"Jim," he whispers, "No _shit_ , Jim, I know!" 

Sound of Jim rumbling against him, and he shakes his head irritated, "I'm not kidding or hysterical, Jim, hear me out, okay? Because you're never going to guess what I see in my dreams." 

Jim sighs. "Tell me." 

"No, first you tell me, tell me this - the panther, when you saw him, how did he look? Healthy?" 

And this is hard for Jim to say, of course it is, which is what Blair's counting on, and Houston we have _corroboration_ here, scientific and all. 

"Yeah, he was great Chief, I told you, it was you," but no, Blair is shaking his head. "Uh-uh. No way. When I saw him, a year ago, _he_ was bleeding and so I gave him the wolf, and oh my God, Jim, this is so way fucked up I cannot believe we are having this conversation." He breathes, trying to tread the line between excitement and rationality. 

Jim draws back carefully. "What are you saying?" 

"I'm saying. I'm saying that whatever it is that's out there knows what we fear most, and well... let's not take things for granted anymore, huh?" Blair's eyes crinkle as he grins wryly. "Tell me why I was so afraid of touching you." 

Jim looks away. Thunder-god face. 

"You were draining your strength into me." 

Ah, no, Jim. Not like that, not like that... Blair leans forward, his turn to nuzzle. "Well, today it was the other way around, wasn't it? The point is, Jim," and he touches his friend's forehead with his own, "the point is that it doesn't matter does it? Not to us, not to a partnership. I give, you take, you give, I take, push and pull; we go on as a team, yes?" Blair holds contact, feeling Jim's temples throbbing against his own. 

Jim's cheeks relax. "We try," he whispers. 

Blair nods seriously. "We try." Pauses, knowing he should say the words, saved when Jim says 

"I'm not ready to go back in there." 

Thank you, Ellison, for leaving me to be the strong one. 

For a moment Blair agrees with him, but caffeine is released into the bloodstream in timed doses and even if they drank liters now it would be four hours before any of it had an effect and basically, Blair is tired of dreaming. So he breathes, inhaling breath into breath, replacing strength for strength, recharging, and when he feels himself relaxing, says very evenly, "Jim, I need you to come back in with me." Whispering for emphasis, "Please, man." 

Two minutes later, holding hands so tightly it's almost pathetic, they lean into each other, breath to breath mingling in an effort to help them sleep. 

* * *

/do you know who you are can you see can you feel or will you only be swayed by the Folk who don't fold no they will not leave they have never left you but why should that stop you dreamer you who are asleep and to whom this is a dream/ 

/but real/ 

Red reality and the wounds in his skin. Blair breathes, feeling the edges of fur morphing back into clothes, blood returning to its proper place in his veins. 

This is _his_ reality. He walks between worlds, damn it. 

"I'm dreaming," Blair says, voice drowning in the silence. "Jim?" 

A gust of wind, uninhibited breath, a stench that he recognizes from dreams and a voice twisted in parody of one he should know. 

/open your eyes/ 

Blair turns towards her, seeing her truly nameless, faceless now, features being sucked into a void of flesh that leaves her a gaping maw, anonymous vessel for hunger that he created. 

/like what you see?/ 

He shakes his head, no, knowing what is going to happen even as she reaches out to touch him, flesh rippling in a grotesque parody, shifting and changing into muscles and male skin not his own, her still-feminine hands begging for mercy as the change overtakes. 

Blair forces himself to look straight at her. 

"Teresa," he says thickly, forcing beneath the blanket and letting the emotions he should have felt and does feel now override disgust. "Teresa, Teresa, I'm ... I'm sorry, please, no." 

She grins horribly, fleshy lips parting. 

" _Stop_ that." 

/Blair/ 

Disgust is enough. 

"No. No, I hurt her enough, I won't let you use her." His hands shake, but he can control this. "This is _my_ place. Leave -" voice breaking as he realizes that maybe this is her place too, the place she's trapped in a hell of his making, so he says the word again, her name, 'Teresa', remembering in that instant that the name is the thing. 

_FUCK_

Nausea and clarity, but the thing that has her shape raises hands to heaven in a soundless howl, shaking as he is shaking now, saying I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but please don't do this, but how can he blame it, her, or even stop them as s/he reaches into hir breast and _claws_ at it, ripping through musculature and breaking bones with painful difficulty, scoring war-paint on a warrior's chest before bringing out a heart, alive and beating, that s/he throws at his feet before disappearing. 

/isn't that what you wanted?/ 

/Blair. Open your eyes/ 

It takes an effort to raise his eyes from the ground, his hands still trembling with the effort to contain them, to contain himself and not let any part of himself bleed into this place, where blood and names have power, but he manages it finally. Looks up and sees the path ahead \- 

"Obviously translated into a cultural metaphor my mind will understand, but _shit_!" A yellow brick _road_? 

Blair takes the first step forward. 

The ground does not want him to go. 

* * *

It's always the same dream. He's lost in the jungle, he's searching for Sandburg and in the distance he can feel the eyes watching him. 

It pisses him off and he stops to yell, because first of all this is Blair's dream, not his own and isn't that damn panther supposed to be helping him through this? 

As the words leave his mouth, so does the air from his chest and Jim stands rooted, feeling the chill overtake him and the loss of sense-memory and the silence of words. Because he's right, this _isn't_ his dream, this is someone else's nightmare, someone who plucked the heart from the sky and let it bleed all over the place, filtering red light so useless for vision it might as well be dark. And there is no breath here, no wind, no smell or taste or sound in the air and he's standing here paralyzed, as useless as when the chopper crashed and broke his ribs so he couldn't even bury his men. 

After a while his hands begin to shake. 

* * *

Blair grunts, taking another step forward. And another, and another. 

The mud squelches at him, pulling insidiously. 

"Oh, I've got you, my little pretty and your little dog too," he mutters viciously. "STOP that you bastard," but it only gurgles appreciatively, so he kicks at it in frustration, which in retrospect is a stupid thing to do. 

Stuck. Again. 

Bloody _hell_. And that might actually be right, now that he thinks of it. 

A sudden ghost-light attracts his attention and he looks up from contemplating his feet to see the approaching figure of a man in army fatigues - Jim? \- but doesn't cry out to it, because over here the word _is_ the thing. 

"Chief," whatever it is calls, running to get him, stretching a hand out like Jim probably would, "Hold on Chief, coming to get you," but would Jim do that if he saw Blair stuck in the mud? More likely grin irritatingly and wait for Blair to pluck his own boots free, yes that's the Jim he knows isn't it? 

Only one way to find out, so Blair shakes his head, go away, and the spirit or whatever it is has to obey, must be a small one and not too powerful because it just snarls at him before morphing into something swift and ugly with bad breath and compact black wings. 

Damn it. 

Blair grits his teeth and takes another step forward. 

The ground gives, a little. He pauses for breath and balance, then lifts his feet again. 

No time for dragging. 

* * *

He's cold, it's cold and something is sucking at him, leaching energy. He sees - nothing in the darkness, but mist trails and puffs of white wind, and if he concentrates, the absence of stimulus is enough to send him reeling. 

Sight and hearing, the two most important senses along with a feel for direction, except he feels rootless and disoriented, which certainly isn't going to work. And there aren't any trees, no sun, no _nothing_ to give him a fucking clue, which means someone here isn't playing by the rules. 

You know what? Fuck the rules. This isn't _his_ place. 

"Sandburg? Where the hell are you!" 

* * *

Fuck this. This is _his_ territory. 

"Dry," he tells the mud, which belches at him but has to obey. 

Well. Not bad. 

Now for the hard part. Blair raises his voice. 

"Jim, I know you're there!" 

* * *

"Quit fooling around and come here!" 

* * *

"I know you can hear me, man. Follow the sound of my voice, Jim, and hurry up because I'm freezing." 

* * *

"Blair. All right man, you've got me worried, but you can do this, okay? Find me." He rubs his arms. "And fast, I'm freezing." 

* * *

"Where the hell _are_ you, Jim? At least answer me, man!" 

* * *

"You know what, this isn't funny." He throws his head back and yells into the silence, determined not to let his words be swallowed. "SANDBURG!" 

* * *

"JIM! Jim Ellison, you WILL hear me! Answer me, damn it!" 

* * *

"FUCK!! Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" 

* * *

"FUCK YOU!" 

* * *

"AND the horse you rode in on..." wait, was that an echo? 

He turns around, blindly seeking. "Blair?" 

* * *

"Jim? Jim! Jim, oh man," as air resolves and he sees his partner not three feet away, "this is my _life_ , Ellison, this is so my _life_ here, tragicomedy and now you, look at you! Three feet away and I've been yelling my head off for you," He pauses suspiciously. "You are Jim Ellison aren't you? Quick, what's my favorite flower?" 

"How the hell should I know?" 

"Jim! Jim! Oh man!" Blair launches into a run, stopping short of throwing himself on the man, settling for a fierce hug. "I was worried." 

"You and me both. Where the hell are we?" 

Blair shrugs. "Patrolling the boundaries between worlds, I think. Here, give me your hand, you're freezing." 

They clasp, connecting, the reality of sparks sending a frisson of awareness through them. 

Blair groans. "No. Not here." 

"I wouldn't have asked either," Jim says somberly. "Look," tilting his head upwards as the air clears slightly, revealing the distant gleam of hovering shapes. 

Blair shivers. "They feed on it... on us. Or can. Come on." 

"Where are we going?" 

Blair points to the path he can see clearly. "Following the yellow brick road. Can you see it?" 

"The _yellow_ brick _road_?" Jim shakes his head in disbelief. "Blair, please tell me you're joking." 

"Sorry, no." He shrugs apologetically. "It's more a path than a road, actually, but it has thorny bushes and yellow bricks." 

"Jesus." 

"Oh man. You really can't see it?" 

Jim grins half-heartedly. "You can, that's good enough for me," gripping Blair's hand a little tighter in as Blair seems to hesitate. "Lead on, Macduff. We'll be okay." Sotto voce, "The YELLOW brick ROAD?" 

Holding hands tightly, they walk. 

* * *

"Whoa! Easy there, pothole." 

Jim stumbles and rights himself using Blair's arm. "Damn. Fine, I'm fine, Sandburg, but this is _not_ my idea of a romantic stroll through the woods." Blair chuckles, responding to the words not the tone. 

"Me neither," encircling Jim's wrist with thumb and index finger, "Come on man. We're doing great." 

"Yeah. Yeah." Scowling up at the ever-present hoverers in the sky. 

"Jim, what is it? What am I missing? What's wrong?" 

Jim shivers. "Nothing. Everything. I can't trust anything anymore - I see maybe three meters ahead then suddenly you're pushing me out of the path so I won't trip on a boulder that's under my feet. I think I can hear you, and that's about all I can hear right now, because this silence is deafening, Blair, and I, I don't like it. The smell is wrong, there is no scent and damn it, this place is just wrong, all right? And those damn birds up there -" 

They stop, Blair turning to Jim, grabbing his head between his hands and pulling him down to exchange breath. 

"Ssh, we can do this, this is okay," touching fingertips to cheekbones, breathing reassurance and warmth that he himself doesn't feel, grounding himself with the solid reality of Jim. "We're good here, we're together." 

"It's so dark," Jim mutters. "The sky's red and there's no sun." 

"I know. That's always the worst. Hang in there, man, we're good, we're together." 

"Yeah." 

"Yeah." 

"We're going to wake up, aren't we?" 

Blair closes his eyes, leaning. "Eventually." 

"Right. Right." Jim rests his head on Blair's, inhaling what he can. "I trust you," he says, not for Blair as much as himself, but Blair grins and kisses him lightly, on the cheek, tiptoeing to reach his forehead. 

"And I love you too, okay?" 

"Okay." He sighs heavily. 

"Mm." They start walking again. "You know, logically, if the Sentinel guards the tribe physically, and the Shaman's job is to patrol the spiritual boundaries, you're going to feel about at home here as I did at the PD at first." He rubs Jim's arm comfortingly. "You'll get used to it." 

Jim glares. "Are you enjoying this?" 

Blair glances back. "Like a root canal." 

Jim snorts. 

They keep walking. 

"Blair?" 

"Yes?" 

"Why aren't the birds attacking us?" 

"I think they're afraid. We're moving targets, healthy animals, not scavenger-food." He has the grace to look a little sheepish. "I don't know. I'm just, sort of, figuring it out as we go on. But I think its good for us to keep walking... patrolling." 

"Okay." 

They walk. 

* * *

Endless un-day. The absence of sun plucks at his eyes, confuses his brains and makes him wonder just how much longer they're going to have to keep walking in red-light. 

"How much longer do you think this patrol is gonna take, anyway?" 

Blair stiffens. 

Time, distance, _equi_ -distant, balance, balancing... 

Infinite. 

The space between worlds is _infinite_. 

"Blair?" 

"Yeah, yeah," his voice oddly strained. "Hold me man, I'm going to try something." 

Jim waits, holding on. 

Blair opens his eyes. 

* * *

The scene shifts in perspective, as if he's been looking all the while through a piece of transparent glass that has suddenly been removed. He sees Jim holding him, feels the presence of the man waiting patiently, sense-blind and trusting, encircling his wrists protectively. 

Something sighs, gusts a little. Might be the wind. If Blair could put a name to it, he'd call it a chuckle. 

/is this your name? is this who you are? be certain now be careful now of who and what will mark you/ 

"Yes," says Blair, looking at Jim like he's a mirror, inverse-reverse, not him but of him. "Yes, this is my name." 

/are you certain? Do you finally see?/ 

"I see." 

/What do you see?/ 

Blair grins. "An ending. A beginning. A barrier between worlds can also be a passage. We hold this together." 

/together/ 

"Yes. Strength for strength," and because here the truth is the thing he has to add, "Weaknesses too." 

/finally/ 

The air breathes, lifting from stasis. 

/finally finally finally.../ 

Blair opens his eyes. 

They move. 

* * *

They're standing on a grassy knoll overlooking a chasm, while above them, far above, birds wheel in silent counterpoint to the quiet rustling of wind and the living of grasses. 

Jim inhales. He can finally see. 

Sound is all around him, simple harmonies of atoms arranging and breaking in the rhythms of entropy. He tastes - life, the scent of dew, broken chlorophyll and feels the shift in air temperature that means sunrise. 

Beside him he feels Blair breathe. 

"It worked," he says softly, chuckling in awe. "I'll be damned. It actually works. Yin and yang, Ellison," smoothly drawing Jim down into a long, possessive kiss. "Perfectly balanced. I love you," he whispers, capturing Jim's lips softly, sucking on the bottom lip; teasing with his tongue. "I love you, man, I fucking adore you. Distance between worlds," he repeats, grinning. "I'm guessing infinite, infinitely large, infinitely small and you, man, you _got_ it, I fucking _adore_ you," emphasizing it with a soft bite to Jim's cheek. 

Jim groans. "I thought we couldn't, here." 

"Rules change," Blair answers, grinning against his mouth. Jim grins back and decides what the hell, it's not like he needs a spinal cord anyway, bending forward at the most uncomfortable angle to perform the famous Ellison lip-lock maneuver. Judging from Blair's enthusiastic response, he approves. 

Blair pushes him gently, and wincing, Jim returns to his starting position. 

"Look," his friend says softly, pointing at the sky. "See that, man? That's beautiful." 

Jim looks and sees the red sky lightening, growing softer, yellow, as if released from stasis in eternal pre-dawn. If he shades his eyes and filters out wavelengths, there and there, he can actually see the sun rise, and it is glorious. 

A strange sound distracts him and Jim looks down, away from the sun at Blair, equally glorious, flushed in the red light, his face transformed with a mixture of awe and glee as he claps. 

Jim grins. "Thank you, but what did I do?" 

Blair laughs and finishes his round of applause. "That was for the sun. This," yanking Jim down to his knees and getting reciprocal so they can kiss without contorting, "this is for you." 

* * *

Later, they're on the grass, almost perpendicular to each other, Jim sitting up, Blair's head in his lap, both watching the distant specks circle in the sky. 

Blair sighs. "Guess they're not ever going to leave. That would have been too much to hope for." 

"But now they know we're watching." Jim grips his hand. "We'll hold the pass, don't worry." 

"Military metaphors," but Blair's expression relaxes. 

Jim pets his hair, changing the subject. "Are you ever going to grow it out again?" 

Blair shrugs. "I don't know, maybe. But I'm sort of used to it now. Do you mind?" 

"Nah," tugging at a strand of hair, "Maybe a little... I'll be pissed if you never wear your nipple ring for me, though." 

Blair chuckles. "It's a deal." 

They're quiet for a while, just watching and letting the dream-sun beat down on them. Jim closes his eyes, blissfully reaching out with sense and pore, basking in the warmth. 

"Mm," a hand snakes up to cup his chin, "Did I ever tell you what a doofus you look like when you do that?" 

"That's Detective Doofus to you." 

" _Detective_ Doofus." Blair grins, turning serious. "I've missed you, man. I've missed this. Us. I mean, not that we've ever done much of this before, but I swear I've missed this." 

Jim pats Blair's hand on his chin. "I know." 

Blair takes his hand and kisses it, nestling it under his cheek. "I'm so tired man." 

"Then sleep." 

"In a dream?" Blair snorts. "This is priceless. I'm falling asleep in a dream." 

"In the boundary between worlds, Chief. You just patrolled an infinite distance, I think you deserve a rest." Deserve to forget. Just for a while. 

"Mm, yea..." Blair snuggles into Jim's hand. "I could sleep. What'll you do?" 

"Watch," Jim whispers. "I'll be here, watching you." 

* * *

/dream wakefully. Dream carefully. Understand what names you can also claim you because in the dream are you the dream or is the dreamer of the dream the same as you/ 

/answer your questions. Take the plunge. Die and die and die again to self and realize that this is the price you must pay for who you are but who _are_ you/ 

/What price do you pay and do you pay it alone/ 

/now that you know, dream awake/ 

* * *

The clock reads 4 a.m. when Blair wakes in the semi-darkness, one hand already reaching out to confirm Jim's presence beside him. Flesh touches flesh and they trade warmth, Jim moving his lips slightly to press a sleepy kiss against his palm. 

He watches as Jim's eyes open slowly, registering his surroundings and the press of skin against his, waking enough to clasp Blair's hand in his own and whisper sleepily, "Tell me." 

Blair does, in touch and the sensitivity of kisses, moving hands and lips to affirm his existence and receive in return the gift of Jim's. Feeling, as he does, the warmth of the sun and far overhead the beating of wings. 

"Ssh," he strokes Jim's eyes closed again, "It's alright; I'm here." 

Jim smiles, surrendering, letting Blair watch as he sleeps. 

And somewhere poised between the worlds, in mirror-balance, the Shaman dreams. 

* * *

End.


End file.
